Nestaron ar Maethor Healer and Warrior
by robey331
Summary: Legolas has to go to Imladris, but prefers not to be stuck in fussy meetings, so he switches identities with his best friend. Trouble ensues.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 ~ Out of Greenwood **

Tawar was still and silent in the secure embrace of the diminishing night, relishing the last lingering moments of velvet obscurity under its cool caress. Like lovers the two reposed, the forest and the night, intertwined as if inseparable, clinging to the comfort of familiarity and the promise of constancy, even as dawn drew near. Its advent would break all: the dark, the quietude, their seamless cohesion, Tawar and the night.

Above the treetops eventide's black, bejewelled mantle paled until just the Morning Star peered down. Beneath the boughs a fine white fog covered the toes of the trees, snuggling close against the land like a blanket tugged tight to ward away unwelcome day. They must part now for a time, the Greenwood and her sable suitor, but only for a time and neither faced the separation with sorrow, knowing their twilit reunion was mere hours hence.

The trees sighed, their leaf-clad branches whispering a gentle refrain of simple, unobtrusive joy, for the woods loved Ithil and Anor equally. The faint glimmer of dawn danced within the softly rolling mist arising from the rich brown soil, filling the serene tranquility with a radiant shimmer of subdued light. Soon, the frosty nimbus would dissipate, burned away in the rising heat of the early summer sun, but for now the graceful veil of moisture undulated in accord with the lilting breeze, an eery ballet of earth-bound clouds. The filmy haze shifted and billowed, now and again seeming to coalesce, taking on form and gliding in mimicry of the graceful tread of elven folk, as if disembodied souls tarried in the ether.

Mayhap it was true; so believed the mortals dwelling in the wooded vale. Perchance these houseless wanderers lingered in the silence of the night, revisiting the place they had most loved in life, their home for Ages out of time. Or did they arise solely to greet the dawn, a brief visitation to mingle their soundless serenade with the omnipresent Music of the waking world? This muted state of the woods was even more short-lived than the ephemeral fluff. The first warbling notes of an aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush) tripped through the luminous air above the vapours, the melodious tones distinct and challenging as the songbird declared the land his own. Far away to the west an answering cadence sounded, diminished by distance but clear and sweet. Morning broke through the barrier of leaves and shadow and drew the mist away; what ghostly phantoms it hid retreated.

The Greenwood's mighty hardwoods rose in unending ranks to the east and north and south, the pathways and byways betwixt them seemingly empty, yet it was not so. Slipping through the towering trees moved a small contingent of the sylvan people, clad in emerald and nutmeg to match the landscape, using the shadows like stepping stones to navigate the cloistered space. Fair were these folk as a hind is fair, clever were they as the wily fox, and deadly, their hands, as the hunting hawk's talons. They belonged to the woods and the woods belonged to them. Wild elegance clothed them; vigilance was their shield and the longbow their defence. Noiselessly they traversed the scene. No words fell from their lips and no impact did the land report in the passing of their feet, nonetheless the space around them was filled with a harmony of spirit that resonated within the bark and branches, the roots and leaves, encompassing all living things under the eaves.

This was no casual stroll designed to enjoy the renewal brought by Anor's return nor was it a hunting party seeking game for food. These were warriors of the Woodland King bound upon a mission of great import, one that would require them to leave the safety of their arboreal abode and venture out into the vast regions of open land beyond the verge of the weald. Single file they proceeded, passing through the forest as stealthily as light penetrates air, for who can see the footsteps of the wind? Leaves on a tree are to be expected; birds flitting from branch to twig rouse no wonder; water running in a brook belongs there. None of these things raise suspicion or concern and, unless one's specific intent is to study such, the ordinary attention the mind grants to these marvels is minimal.

So it was for the elves; they went where they would within their world and few among the forest's other inhabitants remarked their journeys. It was an entirely different thing to step forth into the wide, unsheltered grasslands along the broad banks of the mighty Anduin. Beyond the fringe of the forest, their simple garments lost the quality of camouflage; no inky shadows offered concealing shade; no welcoming limbs provided sturdy perches for rest. Once outside the cover of the trees, the elves would be exposed, starkly visible in a way few among them had ever experienced.

Before the day had advanced an hour, the troop of archers reached the borders of their country and halted. Bright and bold, the glare marking the boundary was more intimidating than a wall of stone. Twelve in number, they lined the brink of the bottom-lands, staring in a mixture of excitement and trepidation at the vast emptiness of the space before them. The immensity of the endless blue sky somehow made the flat and grassy lea seem paltry while at the same time the land went on and on.

There the gleam and sparkle of Anor danced on the swiftly running river's rills, dazzling eyes adapted to low-level illumination. To the south and north Anduin's course swept away beyond the limit of the elves' keen sight, heaven and earth mingling in an indistinct juncture of wavering uncertainty. West across the body of water the horizon was hidden by the imposing peaks of the Hithaeglir. A thin, straight track cut the valley, linking their comfortable haven to the unknown on the other side. Though these were hearty souls well trained in the arts of war, the vision was daunting. For a very long time, none of the elves moved forward.

At last two separated from the others, stepping into the open with purposeful strides. This spurred the remainder to action and thus all the Wood Elves emerged into the bright sunlight, shielding squinting eyes with long-fingered hands, their svelte forms haloed in Anor's golden glow.

"Here we part company," spoke the first to exit the woods. "Stay upon the road and you should reach Imladris in two week's time."

He was tall and comely with long chestnut locks bound back in braids from his high, white brow. Sharp brown eyes scanned their surroundings with both curiosity and caution as he spoke and his tone bore the air of one accustomed to command. Indeed, he was Celon'lîr (River Song), commander of the group and the eldest son of Thranduil, the Wood Elves' King.

"What? How so when you are bound to travel with us?" demanded one of the others.

He was not so lofty in stature but far the fairer. His features were so refined and noble that he was both the envy and the desire of many in the woodland realm, though his manner did not indicate any vanity over the fact. His hair was the pale golden colour of flax, restrained in warrior fashion to prevent entanglement in the bowstring, and his eyes were a vivid blue more vibrant than Arien's domain. He gazed in consternation at Celon'lîr, stepping boldly forward to challenge this new order as if he were equal to the elven prince's station. This he was, for the query came from Legolas, youngest in the party but also the youngest of Thranduil's children.

"We are turning south to Lothlorien," replied Celon'lîr, including his companion with a casual wave of his hand. "It is not necessary for all of Greenwood's princes to foster among the Noldor. Besides, I am past the age of such tutelage; there is nothing those haughty elves can teach me."

"Celon'lîr!" admonished his comrade brusquely. "Mind your words around Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas) Tôradar (brother-father: uncle) does not want him to adhere to such prejudicial notions whilst on this journey." This warrior was kin to the King's sons, being the eldest child of Thranduil's older brother. He was also Celon'lîr's boon companion and Ûrrusc (Fire Fox) was his name.

Celon'lîr and Legolas scoffed in unison, identical snorts of derision issuing from nostrils flared in unhidden contempt.

"What rubbish, Ûrrusc! Adar holds the same opinions regarding those crafty folk: they are unscrupulous, conniving, and unworthy of our esteem," Celon'lîr retorted. The rest of the soldiers affirmed their prince's disgust for the Noldor, several laughing outright and one spitting into the grass as if the mere thought of the foreign elves left an acrid taste upon his tongue.

"Aye," added Legolas. "The only reason he bid us go is to repay Lord Celeborn for the trouble his visiting march wardens caused. Had Orophin not permitted Adar's prized hunting hound to be set loose alone in the forest no reprisals would need to be made."

"I'm convinced none of the Lorien elves meant for the dog to be devoured by that warg," one of the warriors spoke up in the Galadhrims' defence. This was Faron (Hunter), another cousin to the princes, being the youngest son of King Thranduil's sister. Upon his parents' death at Dagorlad, Faron had become a member of the King's household and was just barely older in age, yet senior enough to the youngest prince, for the two to be friendly rivals while as devoted as brothers.

"This is Rumil's fault. He shouldn't have made that insensitive comment about the hound's lack of hunting prowess to so easily fall victim to the beast. But for that, Tôradar would have dealt with the unfortunate incident by making them clean the kennels for a month," stated Ûrrusc. "Instead, he orders them off to home and we are punished with banishment for the entire summer. We will miss the Solstice festival."

"Be that as it may, we have to be the instruments of Thranduil's revenge. Or at least Legolas and the rest of you lot must," said the King's heir. "Ûrrusc and I shall pay a visit to our kin to the south, so to ensure that our esteemed cousin Lord Celeborn the Wise receives a more direct form of reprisal." Without waiting for his sibling, cousins, or fellows to remark further, Celon'lîr raised thumb and fore-finger to his mouth and blew a shrill note into the brand new day. At once a bugling whinny replied, the subdued sound indicating the equine source of the cry was still beneath the trees, somewhere north of his master's position.

"Nay, Ernil, (Prince) do not abandon us! We need your guidance for none of us have been among the Noldorin folk before. How will we know what to do and what to say? Who will speak for us and command us?" complained a tall and willowy elf. His appearance was indicative of the Sindarin branch of the Teleri tribe with the exception of his hair. He boasted a beautiful mane of black streaked through with bright snatches of shining yellow, of which he was quite proud. So vain was he about his uncommon tresses that upon his majority he had renamed himself in their honour: Mallavorn (Black and Gold).

"Elo!" (Hey!) fumed Legolas. "I am a prince of the realm, too. Have faith in my ability, Mallavorn."

"I mean no offence to you, Legolas, but you are still so inexperienced." Mallavorn bowed in apology but did not retract his words. "If things go wrong, we may cause a war to break out."

"That is ridiculous," snapped Legolas. "The Noldorin elves haven't done any kinslaying since the last silmaril was found. It is more likely that Lord Celeborn is using us to rile his esteemed ion-an'weath (son-by-bond), Elrond Half-elven."

"Again, forgive my forthright speech, Tuiw, but that is ridiculous," Mallavorn intoned with deep scepticism. "I doubt Lord Elrond knows anything about the hound incident. Surely you aren't suggesting he plotted the whole disastrous hunt?"

"Do not call me Tuiw." Legolas favoured the unfortunate warrior with his best Thranduil impersonation: legs firmly planted, shoulders squared, fists resting on his hips, and a thoroughly infuriated scowl marring his features. The effect of menacing authority was somewhat reduced by the fact that the younger prince was forced to glare up into his antagonist's face.

"Of course he didn't know!" fumed Faron, hastening to his cousin's aid. "Yet Celeborn can't send Haldir and his brothers to foment trouble in Imladris every time the twins show up in Lorien and wreak havoc."

"So he sends them here instead? How is that either practical or logical?" scoffed Mallavorn.

"It isn't, but it is devious and unexpected. Celeborn knows Tôradar will not send us to Lorien because he can't stand Galadriel and thinks she is immoral and would be a bad influence on our development," Ûrrusc elaborated.

"Exactly, and by sending us to Imladris, Hîren Adar ensures that Celeborn will receive another protracted visit by his grandsons," smirked Celon'lîr. "They probably left for Lothlorien as soon as the message from Greenwood arrived. It wouldn't do for us to best them in their own lands for all their kin to see."

Now all the warriors grinned, for everyone remembered the previous summer when the sons of Elrond had come to the Woodland Realm to hunt Orcs with Thranduil's sylvan archers. Competition between the Lords of Imladris and the Princes of the Forest had been intense and much sport had been derived from their contest to see who could destroy the most goblins. Being far more skilled with the bow and far more experienced with fighting under the trees, Legolas had placed first and his brother second, shutting out the Noldorin Elves entirely. Elladan and Elrohir had not been pleased and had departed in high dudgeon, for Lorien no less, with empty purses and minus a very fine dagger that Celon'lîr now wore at his belt. What tale they may have told there was perhaps a factor in Celeborn's decision to send the March-wardens to harass his regal cousin.

"Furthermore, it is likely that the Lord of Imladris knows Celeborn is behind the unexpected visit from Greenwood's royalty. Haldir told me all about their manners, meaning the lack of any save bad ones, when in the Golden Wood. Even when they are in good humour they find it amusing to annoy their Minya'mmë (grandmother) and torment their thêl dithen. (little sister) When they are in poor spirits, they more resemble the sons of Feänor than the sons of Elrond. The Lady Galadriel's tempers are equal short and terrible. She does not not confine her displeasure to giving her beloved grandsons a gentle reprove; everyone suffers once she is fully irritated, Celeborn especially so," remarked another disgruntled sylvan.

This elf was called Filigod (Little Bird), an appellation bestowed by his Naneth during his elfling years that had stuck quite firmly, though the intrepid fighter was a seasoned veteran of innumerable battles, taller than any of his cohorts on this venture, and older even then Thranduil. His great stature, noble bearing, and a gift of persuasion had won Filigod a place among the king's most trusted envoys. Filigod made many trips abroad to negotiate with woodsmen in the central forest, the townsmen of Esgaroth, and the Beornings along the shores of Anduin. He had even travelled as far as Rohan to bargain with the horse lords for breeding stock. Among the Second-born, however, Filigod went by his official title: Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood).

"Maybe that is true but we are not to be toyed with thus; pawns manipulated in a petty squabble," said Celon'lîr. "That is why we are dividing. Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father) instructs us to behave in a manner neither the Galadhrim nor the Noldorin Lords will imagine. Tuiw, that means you must all be on your very best behaviour."

"What say you?" Legolas was not pleased to hear this, having already devised several clever misadventures with which to upset the complacent population in the valley of the Bruinen. "I will not spend months taking tea in fussy drawing rooms, attending hideously boring council meetings, or singing silly songs in their sumptuous salons." His eyes narrowed as he observed his brother's insolent smirk. "Nay, I don't believe that order comes from Adar at all. You are trying to distract us from the truth. Cel, you are going off carousing and galavanting and you don't want Adar to find out. That being so, you will have to take us with you."

The mood of the warriors grew tense as this came to light and none doubted the younger prince was right. The Wood Elves waited grimly to see which of their lords would prevail for their lot over the course of the journey depended on the outcome. If Celon'lîr deserted then the rest of them would be forced to endure the scenario depicted by Thranduil's youngest. In the unlikely event Legolas succeeded in blackmailing his brother, the elves would all spend a grand holiday carousing and galavanting among the Galadhrim.

"I don't know where you get such ideas, Tuiw," Celon'lîr shrugged. "Even if your accusation was not a wild flight of fancy, I couldn't take you along. The letter to Imladris was sent months ago; if you don't arrive then Adar will be placed in a most unpleasant diplomatic position with the Noldorin Lord. It would be a terrible insult to promise the visit and then renege. Do you wish to be the one to explain to Hîr Adar mín why such an unwarranted affront was perpetrated upon the noble lore-master?"

"That won't work, Cel. I can simply send Filigod to report your transgressions while the rest of us continue on and fulfil our obligations to the foreign elves," sneered Legolas, determined to ensure his brother did not benefit if he must suffer.

By this time two fine horses had emerged from the trees and stood awaiting their riders. Celon'lîr and Ûrrusc proceeded to outfit the chargers with their packs, clearly unpurturbed by Legolas' threats.

"Nay, I can't permit you to send him back; this is your first time away from home and you will have need of his counsel. The success of the mission depends upon it."

"The success of _your_ mission, you mean," Legolas scolded. "If Filigod returns to the stronghold your deception will be uncovered. As for leaving Greenwood, you have never travelled beyond the mountains either. What will Adar think to learn that you left his youngest child to navigate the dangerous passes without you? I wonder what Adar will do about that? I don't believe he will be pleased with your disobedience."

The elder prince stopped what he was doing and stared over his shoulder at his little brother, presenting a bland expression lacking the worry and dread the younger prince had hoped his ultimatum would produce.

"Spare no concern over my fate, muindor laes, (baby brother) for Filigod is going nowhere save to Imladris with you." The King's Heir turned and graced the learned envoy with a rather chilling smile. "By virtue of your valiant courage in battle, your innumerable years in service to our King, and your undeniable talent for talking, I name you captain of the company and protector of Legolas, Prince of Greenwood. Guide him safely through the passes, Filigod, and keep him from inciting mayhem among the staid and stodgy Noldorin elves. Do not fail in this trust."

"AI! I am not a child! I am ten years past my majority and have no need of a protector," Legolas retorted, glaring fiercely when this pronouncement elicited several snickers and indulgent smiles from the senior members of the small party. It was obvious they all considered he had brought upon himself the indignity of acquiring a baby-sitter.

"It is your own doing, Tuiw, and I thank you for reminding me of my filial and fraternal duties," laughed Celon'lîr as he resumed outfitting his horse.

"I will do my utmost to fulfil this charge satisfactorily; yet I remind you, Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince) that your brother is correct. He is of an age to make his own decisions and I am as duty-bound to obey his commands as yours," Filigod sighed grimly. Truly, this was no honour the heir bestowed but a cruel punishment. Legolas had an unerring gift for turning even the most benign occasion into a cataclysmic nightmare of chaos and ruination. Filigod did not want the blame for whatever was about to happen falling on his shoulders. "I must also report that the King expressed his wish for Legolas to take on more responsibility in this task of avenging the death of the hound. He has pre-approved two of the Ernil Daid's (Secondary Prince) schemes."

Celon'lîr and Ûrrusc shared a merry glance and poorly suppressed giggles as they mounted up and then Thranduil's oldest shrugged once more.

"Indeed, Adar is wise, for Tuiw is to be the principal weapon of destruction employed. Try as he might, Legolas can't long abide courtly ostentation and confinement indoors. In fact, the harder he tries the more explosive will be the eruption of his true nature. He is guaranteed to turn the refined and peaceful mien of the Last Homely House upside down. I almost wish I would be there to witness it."

Now this sparked a collective groan of dread and anxiety from the rest of the warriors. For all the amusement the younger prince's adventures granted in the retelling, it was not so diverting to be caught up in them first-hand.

"Avo!" (Don't!) Legolas' eyes flashed dangerously and his stare prevented any coherent complaints from arising amid the ranks.

He was, after all, Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of the Greenwood, and they were members of the Royal Guard, sworn to protect him. With both Celon'lîr and Ûrrusc decamping to go revelling in Lothlorien, he was also now their Lord for the duration of their stay in Imladris. This realisation promptly sobered the soldiers, for they were loyal to their royal rulers and truly respected Legolas' ability in battle. Many a time his skill had saved their lives while they were busy trying to shield his.

"Good, I am glad we are all in agreement," remarked Celon'lîr coolly as he surveyed the elven archers. It was his province, as older brother, to tease Legolas unmercifully, but others did so in his hearing at their peril. "Take care and heed Filigod's advice, Tuiw. I know you will do well but send for me if need is great. I will be travelling incognito under the pseudonym Giliach (Star Crossing). Adar expects us back before the Autumnal Equinox; we shall meet here ten days ahead of it. Namarië!" So saying, the heir to the throne gave a click of his tongue and a nudge of his heel and sent his horse cantering down the track, Ûrrusc right behind him.

"Namarië!" Legolas returned the farewell with a lift of his hand and watched them ride away. When the pair were too distant to hear him or observe his actions, he turned a speculative expression upon the rest of the group.

"Now then, before we embark I have a few announcements to make. First: henceforth, you are not to call me 'Tuiw' at any time for any reason. Second: I have no intention of suffering through an endless program of boring council meetings and tiresome political social gatherings. Faron, I am assuming your identity and you shall play the part of Prince Legolas."

"What?" squawked Faron. His cousin had not discussed this with him in any of their late-hour scheming sessions.

"That is inadvisable, Ernil," cautioned Filigod. This was exactly the sort of thing that could create a disaster. "The official document indicated that both of Thranduil's sons would journey to Imladris. Your brother has been short-sighted in his plans this time, for Elrond will alert Aran Thranduil at once, fearing some dread fate has befallen the heir. The best you can do is explain honestly what Celon'lîr has done and let him face the consequences of his foolishness."

Legolas bristled indignantly and drew back his shoulders proudly. "I have never tattled on Cel and I have no plans to turn nâr (rat) now," he said. "Further, I command all of you to uphold the subterfuge until I revoke the order. As for Ernil Vain, Mallavorn shall be Celon'lîr's doppelganger. You, Filigod, shall be there to make certain he and Faron do nothing that would injure our realm's status, insult the foreigners overtly, or demean Adar before the Noldor."

"Why, Tu Legolas, I am gratified by your confidence in me; however, the Gwanûn will know the truth and reveal us. I have no wish to appear so foolish before Lord Elrond." Mallavorn objected, managing to imbue his words with a thick layer of toadiness despite the contradiction.

"True, but they may not be in Imladris at all." Legolas thought on the likelihood of the twins' presence for a moment as his loyal warriors waited to learn their fate. At last a bright smile lit the young prince's eyes. "No matter, that will work to our advanatge. See here, we will proceed as I have said and if the Gwanûn are there we will simply leave aside the ruse and challenge them to another contest. Once we've soundly beaten them again before all their friends and family, no doubt Lord Elrond will feel the visit has been long enough and send us away. With Hîren Adar not expecting us until Iavas, we can then journey to Lothlorien and join Cel, or should I say Giliach, in his most enjoyable diversions and revels.

The soldiers hesitated to voice their opinions on this plot, for while it certainly sounded grand to get away to Lorien and the company of the fair Galadhrim, they were too aware of Legolas' propensity for attracting disaster. They glanced to Filigod with pleading eyes, beseeching deliverance from certain doom.

"Not to be disloyal, Ernilen, but I must point out that just because you bested Elladan and Elrohir once does not mean it will happen again," cautioned Filigod. "They are worthy warriors and skilled fighters. In Greenwood you had the greater experience in fighting beneath the trees but in Imladris they will be favoured."

"Well, I am not going to refuse a challenge just because I might not win," stated Legolas. "If we lose the match, Lord Elrond will probably send us away all the same, for he will see it as sufficient humiliation to have gained the advantage over Adar, especially if we act the part and play it up a bit. We then go forth to Lorien as planned."

"What if Lord Elrond sends a message back to the King to forewarn him of our return?" queried Faron.

"We can overtake the messenger and retrieve the letter," answered Legolas. "Now, no more excuses, we will do as I have said and that is final. Filigod, I am waiting," Legolas assumed his most obnoxiously imperious manner and glared with aristocratically arched brows for his advisor's oath of fealty.

The envoy's scowl was truly vile but had no effect whatsoever on Legolas. "As you wish, Ernil," he growled and turned his back upon Thranduil's youngest child. "I will abide by this command, unwise though I deem it to be. Mayhap you will learn much from the outcome."

With his compliance given, the other soldiers mumbled their oathes of obedience half-heartedly, knowing full well they would regret them before summer's end.

Now that these minor details were arranged to Legolas' saisfaction, the Wood Elves set off across the valley, making for the High Pass through the Hithaeglir and the wide world of the west beyond.

TBC

© 09/05/2010 Ellen Robey

* * *

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.  
Elvish names and such:

Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filgod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Erestor of Imladris **

Erestor stood in the courtyard of the Last Homely House, tall, refined, regal, stunning; the very image of a noble and esteemed elven Lord. Renowned for his unparalleled finesse in statecraft, his encyclopaedic knowledge on the histories of all the free peoples upon Arda, his prowess with sabre and sword, and his legendary taciturnity, Erestor of Imladris stood still and silent, arms firmly crossed over his chest, waiting. While not unacquainted with such an activity, he was less than pleased to be thus engaged on this particular afternoon, though his external appearance betrayed none of his internal frustration.

He wore garb befitting his station, bedecked in high black boots polished to a rich sheen fit to rival Ithil's, dove-grey leggings beneath a fine tunic of heavy damasked silk in a smoky rose hue, and a tailored undershirt of white satin that was nearly decadent in its luxuriously soft and supple texture. A wide sash of deep indigo defined the lean contours of his predatory form at the waist, its crisp folds securing a short dirk there while the fringed and tasselled ends draped against the curved scabbard of the blade sheathed at his side. The mighty Lord's inky locks were carefully plaited into a thick, weighty queue and bound up securely in a glossy topknot, for Erestor's ebony hair was fabled to be so beautiful that to behold it unbound would prove too much of a distraction for anyone fortunate enough to see this sight.

Yes, the wily kinsman to Elrond Half-Elven was a vision both inspiring and daunting, even though all this majestic perfection was reduced to mere suggestion, obscured beneath the voluminous drape of a heavy hooded cloak, drawn close and snug to protect his person from the relentless rain.

For close to an hour he had been patiently standing there in the seemingly ceaseless downpour, waiting for the expected delegates to arrive. Word had been sent from sentries at the ford that the entourage had been spotted nearing the borders at dawn; surely they would reach the Last Homely House ere long. What could possibly detain them? There was no chance of an encounter with orcs once inside the protected realm. Erestor almost frowned. Could they be lost? Was it possible the foreign envoy had mistaken another residence for Elrond's famous abode? Erestor almost sighed; a protracted inhalation succeeded by an equally lengthy, though silent, discharge of his lungs' air. He shifted slightly in the saturated soil and reversed the order of his folded arms, left overlapping right.

Above his head a sturdy yet elegant canopy, supported by two shivering, grim-faced, and thoroughly soaked pages, sheltered him from the merciless torrent of the interminable deluge. All around them the air was dim and dark, pierced and shredded by long wet lances of precipitation streaming down, drumming a harsh, monotonous percussion upon the earth. Behind them, the water in the basin of the fountain leaped and dimpled, a thousand spiky peaks and ripple-rimmed depressions dancing across its fluctuating surface. The melodious ribbons of fluid normally issuing from the central sculpture were absent, replaced by the constant efflux from above, a high-pitched staccato accompanying the innumerable drops as they pelted into the exquisite marble bowl. The container had filled beyond its capacity hours ago; thin, sinuous rivulets cascaded over the gleaming sides and ran in winding muddy gullies over the red clay at their feet.

A low rumble of thunder followed the brief brilliance of lightning bursts flashing overhead, illuminating the fabled refuge beneath ominous and glowering clouds. No wind tossed the trees or billowed the oiled canvas cover; the storm was clearly content to remain right where it was for an indeterminate amount of time.

The Chief Advisor to Imladris' Lord was accustomed to protracted periods of stationary stoicism poised beside the courtyard fountain, albeit not in the pouring rain. Lord Elrond, though he was known as the most gifted and compassionate healer in all of Middle-earth, had no patience for the solemn and stately pomp generally associated with welcoming visiting dignitaries to his hidden haven. Whenever possible Elrond left such tasks to his loyal and reliable seneschal. Over the long centuries in service to Eärendil's son, Erestor had become quite adept at inventing official and important sounding reasons to give the many guests and visitors, apologising for his Lord and masking this oversight on the part of Rivendell's revered leader.

Indeed, he had turned it into a personal contest to come up with original and unique, while at the same time utterly believable and incontrovertible, alibis for his kinsman whenever the need arose. It was a point of honour for Erestor never to duplicate an explanation within a given coronar (sun-round, a year) nor to state a bald untruth.

It was customary for Elrond to participate in the alibi-game, helping concoct the phoney obligations to which he had previously given priority before learning of the imminent arrival of whatever person was scheduled to appear. Many were the morning meals marked by a mood of scheming intrigue, evinced by the two friends' hushed conversations and spasmodic outbursts of wicked snickering. In this instance, however, Elrond had eschewed to play, deciding straightaway upon reading the missive from Mirkwood that his attention was not required.

For once Erestor had grimaced over his assigned station, wondering aloud if perhaps one of his subalterns might be sufficiently important for the unexpected delegation from the normally isolationist enclave of silvan elves. Elrond had refused to let him beg off, however, stating that to shunt the greeting onto some lesser diplomat might prove detrimental to such an unprecedented loosening of the Woodland King's intolerant attitude toward outsiders. No, Elrond had gravely asserted, he could only trust Erestor to receive the visitors with the proper level of decorum and respect.

Erestor had wondered exactly what that meant since sylvans were not known for their refined aspect of culture and sophistication. Standing in the mud-mired yard, he was still uncertain whether the Wood Elves even possessed the concepts of gentility and courtly behaviour.

The letter had arrived barely two months ago, tucked in amid a bundle of papers and correspondence from Lorien, and had been overlooked for some weeks upon its delivery. That was primarily Celeborn's fault, for he had concealed the announcement within a lengthy scroll cataloguing the resources at hand among the various human settlements near his lands. Celeborn was a gracious leader, though a virtually invisible one to the world beyond his borders, and nearly as xenophobic as his Sindarin cousin to the north; yet he made it a point to aid the human colonies scattered around the fair Ardh o Mellyrn Taur. (Realm of the Golden Wood) Every year he conducted an exhaustive inventory of the population, the abundance or dearth of game, the quality and quantity of domestic livestock and of the agricultural harvest, the robustness of the peoples' health, and the degree to which the dark forces of the world successfully preyed upon them.

While such an intensive study of the conditions of outlying settlements surrounding Lothlorien was not something Elrond would ignore, and in fact he found the information valuable as he did much the same for the towns and villages surrounding Imladris, said report was not a document that would garner immediate attention. He was far more likely to read intelligence on the location and numbers of orc encampments first, all his personal correspondence second, the accounts of folk leaving for the Havens next, discuss and decide upon all petitions for immigration to his realm fourth, and only then peruse the lengthy tract on the viability versus vulnerability of the frail humans and their scattered colonies. Elrond did just these things in exactly the stated order and therefore the communication regarding Thranduil's intent to send a party of his warriors to Imladris was not discovered until nearly two months had gone by.

Erestor grinned despite his annoyance to be kept waiting, recalling that revealing moment when Elrond had at last reached for the innocuous looking parchment scroll, absentmindedly breaking the seal without even checking to see whose it was. The seneschal was certain he had never beheld so much of his kinsman's eyeballs as the size of the Elf Lord's orbs expanded to elaborate proportions of disbelieving denial, his aristocratic, aquiline nose wrinkled in undisguised distaste. For while the general population frequently sneered at Thranduil for his unenlightened ways and his unhidden prejudices toward other peoples, Elrond generally kept his own lack of broad-mindedness concerning Wood Elves well concealed. Not so on that occasion.

"Erestor," the Lord of the Vale had said in grim displeasure, "what crimes have I committed lately? Have you noticed my generosity waning or my judicial management of our affairs to be lax? Is there some innate flaw in my character that would prompt the Valar to single me out for chastisement?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" Erestor had replied, perturbed by the tone of these queries. "Is some trouble bespoken in that letter?"

"There is. Do you know whence this document originated? Perhaps you noticed it when the messenger from Lorien arrived. Noticed yet failed to call it to my attention."

"I never interfere with the post from Celeborn!" Erestor had drawn his noble dignity close about his sleekly lupine frame and stared at his cousin in strong disfavour, brows drawn down and eyes narrowed. "What prompts such base accusations?"

"You did not see it?" Elrond demanded a second time, not intimidated one bit by the menacing presence projected by his Chief Advisor, having known Erestor his entire lifetime.

"I have already stated so." In light of the failure of his threatening posture, the seneschal next elected to take on an attitude of wounded honour.

"My apologies," Elrond sighed. "Once you have heard this news you will understand my reluctance to accept it as fact. The words herein portend naught but vexation at best and utter destruction of our peaceful world at worst. It is from Thranduil."

Erestor startled, unable to prevent his eyes from expanding to the limits of their sockets. "What does he want?"

"An opportunity to strengthen the ties between our lands."

"There are no ties between Imladris and Mirkwood."

Elrond quirked a brow at his kinsman's remark, though he did not contradict Erestor. "Permit me to quote the Elven King: 'We propose to send two of our sons to abide for a time in fair Imladris, there to undergo the tutelage of Lords Glorfindel and Erestor for instruction in combat and state-craft, respectively.'"

"What? I didn't know he had more than one son. Why is he suddenly so keen on foist uh…fostering his children out?"

"It is all Celeborn's fault. According to the note, he sent Haldir, Orophin, and Rumil to study archery among the troops of Thranduil's guard. While only complimentary phrases are used, the tone between the words is anything but conciliatory. The ink practically radiates Thranduil's exasperated rage to have been thus indisposed."

"They must have caused a good deal of mischief for the King to wish for revenge so strongly that he set aside his disdain for Noldorin ways. Wouldn't it make better sense to retaliate against Celeborn? He should send his offspring to Lothlorien."

"Thranduil could certainly send his sons to foster in Lothlorien, but he would have to ensure that they were on their very best behaviour. If they acted out of turn in any way, it would be seen as a response to the antics of Haldir and his brothers. That would be dishonourable, for Celeborn and he are cousins."

"Yet it was not dishonourable for Celeborn to impose the Terrible Trio upon Thranduil."

"No, for there is nothing to indicate he sent them with the intent to cause trouble, even though it is highly probable that he did. In fact, I believe he sent them for exactly that purpose, knowing full well that Thranduil would retaliate by inflicting us with his barbaric princes. I am suddenly interested in speaking with my sons about their last trip to the Golden Wood."

"Ah. That is marginally clearer, though the silvan sense of honour is rather convoluted," Erestor had grumbled. "I simply can't believe he really means to send his sons here. Perhaps it is all a hoax."

"Nay, he has sent a formal communication in the old language. You know better than any the protocol for these things. If after a fortnight no official refusal is sent, the response is deemed a 'yes' even if no reply is made at all. It would be nearly a declaration of war for him to beg off or for me to refuse after the customary two week grace period has expired."

"Then what is he up to?"

Elrond's shoulders had uplifted in an elaborate shrug of absolute bafflement. "It can't be good, whatever plot he is brooding. Perhaps these elves he sends are not his sons and their elite guard but a pack of scoundrels and criminals he wishes taken off his hands. He means to weaken us from within and then take over the valley. No doubt he has finally realised what a deplorable place Mirkwood truly is and wishes to relocate."

"How elite can a silvan troop of archers be? More likely, his sons and their warriors _are_ scoundrels and thieves. Mayhap their intent is to spy on us and abscond with some precious relics the old treasure hoarder has heard are kept here. Valar! They will make the Rangers seem genteel." Erestor was thoroughly displeased once he had come to accept that this awful event was truly going to come to pass. "What are we to do with them? How long do you intend them to stay?" Images of wild, half-clad elves skulking in the trees of the fair vale, shooting the domestic livestock for food and frightening the citizens with their uncouth manners assailed his mind. The noble steward shuddered.

"There is nothing we can do about it now," Elrond's lips had curved downwards into a particularly sour grimace of dissatisfaction. "We must minimise the damage, however. Where are Elladan and Elrohir? No doubt they know something of these primitive princelings and the reason we must endure their presence." Elrond half rose from his seat, scanning the upper balconies for his sons, then tipped back his head and drew a deep breath. "Ionath!" his shout rang through the valley but the twin Lords did not respond. Their sire scowled as he resumed his seat.

"They have a certain knack for escaping just when you prepare to corner them, Elrond. I would wager they're half way to Fornost by now," chuckled Erestor. "We'll have to deal with Thranduil's invasion force on our own."

Elrond snorted in scorn at that. "We do not need help. It is a simple matter of keeping them busy, too busy to cause trouble. The less they interact with the citizenry the better."

"What do you propose?"

"Let it be just as Thranduil states and again I quote: 'Treat them as you would your own retainers and dispose of their obligations as you deem fitting; they are not to be coddled and catered to as princes or noble lords, for they are warriors first in the defence of our realm. Let them serve beside your guard, aiding in the defence of Imladris. Whatever decree you may make, it shall be to them as our own words.'" Elrond smiled, a venomous expression brimming with sly devilry.

"They shall live among the soldiers in the barracks, go forth on patrol with Glorfindel to monitor the borders, and study the Histories with you. Quenya, Erestor, you must see to it they learn to read and speak passable Quenya in order to suitably impress their father and King upon their return home."

"What? Surely that is inadvisable, Elrond." The seneschal had dropped all indications of amusement over the situation upon hearing this. "They will clash with our warriors and who knows what sort of trouble will be stirred up. You can't seriously expect me to hold classes for them as if they were elflings. Besides, I doubt if they can even read."

Again the dramatic lift and fall of the Lord's shoulders had emphasised his lack of concern. "How else will they learn of the customs and manners of the Noldorin warriors unless they live among them? How will they learn anything about our fighting skills if they do not get mixed up in a few fights?"

"I don't think that is the type of skirmish in which their father wants them to participate."

"If they cannot read then you shall teach them," Elrond continued, ignoring the interruption. "Writing may be too much to hope for, but do not let my dismal outlook prevent you from attempting to instruct them. You could hold the classes in the Hall of Fire so everyone can observe their progress from ignorance to educated enlightenment." Elrond had held up his hand to halt his kinsman's next protest. "No, this is the best way to manage them, given their arrival is nearly upon us. I leave it to you to apprise Glorfindel of the situation. There is no need for me to be involved with them during their stay."

"Very well, but I want to state that I am emphatically adverse to this plan. I would also have you note the injustice in singling me out as the chief person to suffer their company when it is clearly Celeborn's fault that they are coming here." Erestor had a strong desire to have this on record, for any fool could see this was nothing but a disaster brewing.

He also had no intention of adhering to Elrond's mandate for the delegates' disposition. His plan was to keep them out on patrol for the duration of their stay. Unfortunately, Glorfindel had balked at that and between the two of them a schedule of activities had been devised. The Wood Elves' time would be divided between extended patrols, gruelling training sessions, and formal feasts and fêtes designed to introduce them to Noldorin customs and hospitality.

It was not a compromise the seneschal was pleased with, for the activities under Glorfindel's supervision would tend to leave the visitors too exhausted to get into any mischief while those for which the steward was responsible were fraught with opportunities for catastrophe. Who knew how the aboriginal elves would behave among polite company? Erestor had decided then and there that Elrond owed him an extended vacation in Mithlond for all his troubles.

A tremendous boom of thunder roused Erestor from his recollections. Glaring into the gloomy sky, he was reminded that the clever subterfuge he had devised to deceive the Wood Elves was no longer necessary, for it had disintegrated in the aftermath of an unexpected attack upon the humans inhabiting the Angle, the fair lands in the crux of the Bruinen and the Mitheithel. Most of the folk had been slaughtered and their lands set aflame, homes and farmsteads burned. Elrond was busy with the work of healing those wounded who had survived and fled to Rivendell. He would never leave the healing wards when his aid was required, not even if Manwë were to come pay a call. Erestor did not begrudge his Lord's dedication; rather, he was disgusted that more important work he could be doing must be set aside to wait upon the appearance of the visitors.

His dry and subtle sense of humour had long ago given way before an inundating rage that rose in concert with the depth of the ruddy slurry sluicing around his boots. The mud was currently ankle deep and the tempest gave no indication of abating. Outwardly, the seneschal maintained his inscrutable, aloof demeanour yet within his soul the surge of his wrath had yet to crest. He mentally lambasted the King of Mirkwood with disgusting and detestable oaths and obscenities, all centred around the theme of fluids and the various bodily orifices from which they issued. Not only was the over-bearing Sindarin dictator determined to wreck the serenity of Imladris, and of Erestor personally, but naturally he must send his brats abroad just now, arriving on the heels of a crisis uncommon in Eregion since the Witch King of Arnor brought war and death across the lands.

A jarring flare of white light was followed seconds later by a suitably strident and fulminating crack of thunder, underscoring his bitter ruminations.

The sky was growing murky as the day waned and still the heavens wept in wrath as if the impending arrival was the most wretched and foul offence upon the land, which the Chief Advisor deemed a fit description of the disruption about to be perpetrated upon his comfortable routine. He sighed in aggravation, earning shocked glances from the miserably wet and thoroughly chilled pages, and gazed down the road toward the impressive gates of the estate. No sign of the Wood Elves was apparent. He shifted indecisively; should he give up and go inside, send riders out to search for them, or wait upon the possibility that they were nearly there?

"Enough of this!" he exclaimed. "They are probably camped somewhere in the woods; we won't be going to seek them in this vile weather. Come along, mellynen, (my friends) we have duties awaiting our actions."

Accompanied by the relieved sighs of the drenched esquires, Erestor turned to stomp up the broad marble stairs into the front hall, having wasted enough of his valuable time, but before he had gained the third step the sound of boisterous singing met his ears. He halted and half turned, for the bawdy verses were coming from the back of the house, somewhere behind the kitchen. He frowned as the voices suddenly ceased and minutes later the silence was shattered by the noise of a great fracas. Hastening through the storm toward the locus of the escalating pandemonium, Erestor was grimly certain he had at last found the missing guests when an elf came racing through the front door and skidded to a stop just before he bowled the seneschal over.

"Lord Erestor!" he gasped out. "You are needed at once in the cook-house, sir. Please hurry; I fear that someone is about to be killed!"

TBC

© 29/12/2006 Ellen Robey

* * *

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.  
Elvish names and such:

Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filgod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - Ravage of Rhudaur**

"Fall Back! Fall Back!" The frantic call to retreat was drowned out by the roaring rush of heat and destruction pouring from the fire-drake's grinning maw.

Terrified screams rose above the clash and clamour of swords and spears, a crescendo of panic and dread as the townsfolk's efforts to repel the demon and its heartless allies failed. Advancing behind the fearsome spectacle, the enemy easily cut down those doughty fighters not incinerated. Ruthlessly the interlopers hacked and slashed through the sketchy defence of stout souls brave enough to engage them.

These foemen were not numerous; without the fire breather they would have been no match for the townsfolk. Hearty remnants of the old Kingdom of Rhudaur, the blood of the Dunedain still trickled through the villagers' veins, though diluted and diminished by time and miscegenation. The region's governor bore oblique kinship to the kings of old. Staunch and steadfast were these folk and much of the ancient lore was preserved in this easternmost province of the deprecated realm of Arnor. These were still a free people and not willingly would they relinquish that status. Yet detrital pride is a poor shield against dragon-fire; the line wavered and broke. Men scattered like sheep before wolves.

The beast's incandescent flames licked along the ground and ignited everything in their path: trees, farmsteads, cottages, and humans alike. Children, orphaned as parents sacrificed themselves to protect them, were set alight, gruesome torches to illuminate the pre-dawn night. A horrendous stench of seared and combusting flesh mingled with the biting tang of burning pine and oak. More quickly than anyone could calculate a thick black fume of smoke and ashes and orange tongues rolled across the village, obscuring sight, robbing lungs of air, and distorting reason. Hope fled and with it went the people, racing in precipitous panic everywhere through the decimated town.

Horror sheared away rational faculties as the futility of the struggle became obvious; all of them would die. Then many reverted to the raw instinct of the animal, each seeking in mindless fear to escape, to survive. Mothers made vile choices, gathering up babes small enough to carry and letting go the hands of older offspring, a shrieking ululation arising in which were mingled children's names, cries for mama, and exhortations to run. Spouse abandoned spouse, brothers forgot they had siblings, toddlers sought for hiding holes. Through it all the foul dragon laughed and roared and issued taunts in a strange speech none could decifer.

Into this scene of massacre and mayhem came unexpected salvation. A silent assault of deadly precision engulfed the attackers as elvish arrows streaked through the unholy glare of the dancing plumes, striking down the merciless foes. A great shout of courage and determination arose as the people beheld their saviours rushing into the melee, long hair streaming and bows singing, materialising in their midst as if born of the smoke. The elves fell upon the minions of the Dark Lord in soundless ferocity. Emboldened, every able Man turned to re-form the line and renew the struggle.

Still the fire-drake exhaled its blasting breath of Udûn, feeding the rising conflagration with living kindling. The elves shouted in rage to see it and all bent their bows upon the hideous monster. It gave a lumbering leap and sought to unfurl its leathery wings, unfazed by the barrage of missiles flung upon it, for all the arrows were thwarted. Not one found means to pierce the dragon's armoured skin. Undaunted, the elves and Men doggedly harried it, desperate to prevent its escape, for once in flight the creature would quickly attain a height beyond even the range of the sylvan archers.

This was in fact Legolas' small troop which had come upon the battle. None would have the thing free to return and complete its assault or travel on and unleash its fury on another village.

"The eyes!" shouted one of the Men, frantic to be heard above the commotion. "Aim for its eyes, good Nimîr nardu!" (Elf soldiers)

The dreadful beast bellowed out some profane curse in its arcane language for the hearing of dragons is as keen as that of the First-born. It shot forth a long ribbon of flame to chase after the clever man but only the fellow's hair was singed as he dove into the dirt and rolled away. The dragon's desire to punish him for such insolence proved its ending, for one of the archers quickly took the advice. With a startled grunt and a last puff of blue smoke, the formidable monster went down in a heap, the elf's arrow so deeply embedded in its brain that only a few fronds of the feathered fletching were visible poking up from the center of the left orb.

Before anyone could utter a sound two amazing things happened. The dragon's form wavered and shook like the slimy surface of a mud-mired pond and then seemed to melt. Through the steam that arose around it a new body coalesced and the elves cried out as one in amazement, for in death the creature assumed the form of a Man. The townsfolk were not surprised at all and many muttered curses and spat upon the corpse. Next, a great flash of lightning heralded a mighty boom of thunder and a veritable torrent of rain pelted down over the area, cleaning the air of the foul vapours and reducing the flaming debris of the village to smouldering black-charred lumps.

Then a loud cheer did arise from the surviving fighters as they saw not only the death of their tormentor but the quenching of its ravaging fires. Yet it was a sombre enough cry, for the lamentations of mothers and children had never ceased, and with their doom lifted the people remembered their insanity and wept. Everywhere their eyes turned, the seared remains of friends and family littered the ground, formless shadows in the sunless dawn.

"It is a good victory but a bitter one," said the Man who had exhorted the archers. "We are grateful to you for surely all would have perished this day without your skill and bravery. I am Aglahad, Chief of the City. Which among you is Lord?"

This seemed to take the elves aback, for they shifted about and gazed upon one another uncertainly, wondering if they must speak lies to the people they had just defended. The village leader mistook the problem for one of language comprehension and repeated his words, switching from Westron to Sindarin. The restatement gave the Wood Elves time to compose themselves and Filigod stepped forward. He bowed his head just the correct amount to be cordial without relinquishing his innate dignity and pressed the open palm of his right hand over his heart.

"I am Condir o Gladgalen, bound on a diplomatic mission to Imladris. We sighted the smog of the fiend from afar and hastened to enjoin the battle. It pleases us to rid the world of Melkor's misshapen creations, yet this is a thing none of us have ever seen. How is it we look upon a fallen Man and not a worm?"

"Ah! It is not something we are accustomed to either, worthy Condir," answered Aglahad gravely. "This is a creature out of myth: a were-worm from the Last Desert. Never did I believe the fables of my childhood yet there it lies in the pooling rain!"

"Do you mean to say this is some kind of shape-shifter, Sir?" asked Legolas, quite astounded, as he moved forward and nudged the despicable thing with the toe of his boot.

"I do mean it," said the Man. "Thus these felons sneaked among us, all of them arriving as Men fleeing hardship and slavery in Far Harad. We welcomed them for many tales are told of the cruelty of those distant realms. They each pledged their swords to our defence and we were fooled."

"What treachery!" exclaimed the youngest prince of Greenwood in disgust and kicked the derelict demon in the head. "No less can one expect from a servant of Shadow." His fellows added their own subdued agreement as all stood staring at the wreck of the creature through the leaden veil of the worsening tempest.

"Aye and we are not the first to be so deceived. Two days ago we saw a haze of smoke on the horizon but did not know the source. Then these Men came bringing rumour of a dragon away south. We thought these villains to be running from that as much as from their tyrant Lords. We had planned to set forth this day and make for our neighbours near the Angle, fearing the worst. Now, I don't believe anyone could make away safely from such cruelty as this. Alas! Little did we understand that we sheltered the murderers of our kinfolk!" mourned Aglahad.

"How then did you learn its nature?" asked Filigod, for it was plain to all that the Men had not been shocked to behold the transformation.

"A child saw it turn from Dragon to Man," he answered, his face twisting in anguish. "A wee lass, just upon the age of reading, and so none of us believed her tale until the were-worm turned and unleashed its flames. She stumbled upon it as it returned from raiding the flocks away in the leas, a mangled sheep in its ugly claws. Shocked she was in fear and frozen to the spot where she hid beside the barn on her father's lands." Aglahad began openly sobbing as he tried to complete his answer. "No sooner had the thing regained solid ground than it changed before her eyes and began to dress the meat.

"Seeing this she ran and told her mother, who apprised her husband, but neither one gave credit to the veracity of such a story. Indeed, she was scolded and sent to her bed without supper. If only we had listened to her! Ah! Azraphel (Sea-daughter) my little girl! She is dead and her mother with her! Forgive me!" The distraught man cast himself down into the slurry of mud and bloody ashes, rending his garments and wailing in agony. All bowed their heads low in sorrow for the loss of the girl and her father's tormented guilt.

Then Legolas moved forward and knelt beside him, a hand upon the heaving shoulders. "You could not have known. It is the way of children to invent and imagine and to share such dreams with their parents. You could not have known she beheld this thing in truth and she would not have you overcome in your grief. Arise and let us prepare such funeral rites as your people ordain, that Azraphel and all the fallen may go forth in peace to the place Iluvatar has made for the Second-born."

Aglahad turned his dolorous countenance to meet the eyes of his consoler and raised himself to his knees, gripping the elf firmly by the shoulders and spreading a stain of brown and red upon the saturated tunic of forest green. "My thanks to you, fair warrior, for your comfort and your aid. It was you who brought the were-worm down, wasn't it? Speak your name that it may be entered in the annals of our history for all the days of Men until the Utter End," he said earnestly.

"He is Legolas, our Prince and Lord, the son of King Thranduil of the Woodland folk," announced Faron proudly, forgetting his cousin wished to remain anonymous. "There is no better shot in all the land of Rhovanian, and maybe here in the west he is also matchless."

"Ai! Dîn, Faron!" (Ah! Silence, Faron!) admonished Legolas as he scrambled to his feet, pulling the Man up with him.

Around them all the townsfolk drew back and fell upon their knees in wonder, lowering their eyes and murmuring words of astonished gratitude. So great was their amazement that even the wounded were neglected for a moment or two. None of these folk had ever seen the Elven King but most had heard tales of him and the Elves of Greenwood. To have in their midst the son of this mighty Lord was a marvel; to hear and see his generosity was beyond astounding.

An Elven Prince had delivered them! The son of King Thranduil gave respect for their dead and offered to join in the mourning of humble mortals! Hesitantly they peered from beneath lowered lashes to ingrain forever in their hearts the sight of the First-born redeemer, rain-soaked and mud-spattered but nonetheless regal and magnificent to their eyes.

"Hail, Prince Legolas!" shouted Aglahad and his people repeated the acclaim as they jumped to their feet anew. Impulsively the throng surged forward and laid hold of Legolas, bodily lifting him upon their shoulders as the remaining elves looked on, gaping in surprise. Thus he was borne away into the town to its central square, Filigod hastening after as the rest of the warriors quickly tailed behind. The people set their hero down upon the remains of a dais which served as the town-crier's forum, the hangman's platform, and everything in between. Then they led another rousing cheer, sending it above the din of the downpour three times in succession, each chorus more hearty than the last.

"Please, no such applause is required, good folk," said Legolas, embarrassed while at the same time gratified to receive such heartfelt accord. "Now, let us see what must be done to set your lands and lives to rights. The dead cannot be made to breathe again but they are avenged. The Shadow has gained no victory in their loss nor has the strength of Men been defeated. Let us honour the fallen in Songs of sorrow and work of rebuilding." So saying, Legolas began one of the ancient hymns, a lament pleading the Valar to grant peace and quick rebirth to the deceased. The rest of the sylvans joined him, raising their melodious voices to mingle with the steady rhythm of the deluge, none of them caring that there would be no reincarnation for the Second-born.

Neither did the mortals mind as they stood in respectful silence, permitting the soulful music to loosen their locked hearts so that all were soon freely shedding tears for loved ones lost. Yet as the dirge went on they found the sounds soothed their sorrow and their spirits were unburdened. When the song ended at last the people stood quietly, their gazes inward, fear and guilt conquered, recalling their kin and comrades with pride and love shining from tear-brightened eyes. After a time, Aglahad issued orders for the digging of graves that burial might be achieved and the dead laid to rest with dignity. Though he had not meant it, the Wood Elves each procured a shovel as well and sang as they joined this task of bereavement.

Thus it was that Elladan and Elrohir discovered the Mirkwood contingent standing solemnly by the newly turned gravesides in the driving rain, underscoring the humans' ritual prayers with the subdued sound of elvish laments. It was they who sent word back to the borders that the sylvan envoys would arrive ere nightfall.

The twin Lords of Imladris had spied the signs of fire as they patrolled the hilly region of Eriador between the Trollshaws and the Misty Mountains, for it was as Erestor had predicted and they were travelling toward Fornost. Eagerly had the brothers hurried to the site, for they had knowledge of the dragon's destructive actions in the Angle. Elrond had sent out Glorfindel to track down and dispose of the demon and he in turn had dispatched patrols across the lands. One of these had come upon the twins and relayed the news. Elladan and Elrohir had hoped to be the ones to slay the beast.

"Mae Govannen, Tuiw" (Well met, Sprout) Elladan bowed to Legolas upon Aglahad's unnecessary introduction. "We are pleased to meet you and laud your timely intervention here. Not for nothing are the talents of the woodland archers renowned." Twice now this mere stripling of an elf had stolen victory from him, eldest son of Imladris' noble Lord. Elladan was anything but pleased to find Thranduil's lesser prince in the seat of glory once again, and this time on ground under his Adar's protection. He barely covered a savage scowl with a forced smile as he searched the crowd for Celon'lîr. "Where is Mirkwood's heir?"

Now Legolas was unhappy to have to hear both hated nick-names: his and his homeland's, but to have his plot so quickly discovered seemed most unfair and not at all the sort of reward deserved for the day's valour. Silently he cursed his brother as he tried to come up with a plausible answer. Mallavorn beat him to it.

"So good to see you again, Guanunig!" The false prince smiled and bowed with exaggerated grace in the pouring rain. He couldn't have chosen a more degrading greeting, for Elladan despised being called by this collective term, preferring to be referred to as 'Hîren' when someone couldn't determine which twin he was. "Aran Thranduil's heir left ahead of us, intending to stop in Lothlorien before rejoining our patrol." Not only was this the absolute truth, it was stated such that it could be interpreted in a variety of ways without revealing the actual circumstances of the woodland princes' plans. Mallavorn immediately gained in Legolas' esteem.

There was a brief and intense silence as Elladan shared his enraged disgust, consisting of mostly expletives, with Elrohir, who endured the mental barrage with amusement. The younger twin thought his brother overly sensitive regarding their names, birth-order, and individual identities and told him so. The brothers did agree on one thing, however, and that was the certainty that trouble would converge upon Rivendell with the Wood Elves' arrival. None of this communication was divulged to the waiting sylvans, of course.

"Well, it is a shame, that, for I would have liked a rematch in order to win back my dagger," Elrohir said with an amiable smile.

"No doubt, Hîren," answered Filigod before Legolas could reply to that challenge. "Will you be our escort into the Hidden Vale?"

"Nay, we have made promise to join Aragorn and the Rangers on the North Downs, but we will remain here a time and aid these folk," Elladan stated. "Go now and seek the haven of the Last Homely House, for you are expected. Eru le anna galu ar oer fael anlû mín aderthad." (Eru give you good fortune and fair days until our reunion.)

"Lín pith vilui, Hîren." (Your words are gracious, my Lord.) Legolas also bowed, glad to hear this news but needing confirmation. "Are you not to return to Imladris soon? I, too, would enjoy another contest of arms."

"Oh, we may not be back in the valley for many days," said Elladan evasively. "How long are you to stay?"

"Aran Thranduil left the matter open. The visit's duration is to be determined by lords Elrond, Erestor, and Glorfindel. When they deem the princes of the woodland realm have learned enough of Noldorin culture, warcraft, and state-craft, we shall go home," Filigod again interrupted.

"In that case you may remain a very long time indeed," the elder twin's words were barely within courteous bounds, skimming the edge of sneering contempt. "I am sure you will be there still when our promise to the Rangers is fulfilled."

"We will be gone before Solstice," growled Legolas.

"How unfortunate," smiled Elladan. "Our Solstice festival is by far the most enjoyable among the elven realms."

"Perhaps so, yet it must depend on one's definition of enjoyment," countered Legolas.

"Too true, Tuiw; it requires a certain refinement of manner and mind to appreciate Noldorin culture," quipped the elder twin.

"And Aran Thranduil is determined that his sons acquire just that quality of which you speak," interjected Filigod. "We expect to remain for the duration of laer but no longer, despite the pleasing prospect of Lord Elrond's fabled hospitality, for the snows come early to the High Pass."

"The House of Eärendil is honoured to have earned such a trust," Elrohir gave a slight bow and sent his brother a silent command to stop baiting the sylvan princeling. "I hope we will be able to do our part in exposing you to all the delights of the Hidden Vale. I beg that you will stay for Solstice, Legolas; I am certain Adar would be disturbed by your plan to leave us so soon and I am eager to test your sparring skills once more."

It was a direct challenge and Legolas could not decline without losing the respect of his warriors, nor did he wish to turn from it. He smiled back at the younger of Elrond's sons.

"How could I refuse such an invitation? We will stay at least through Solstice, then, and see what may be learned of Noldorin ways," Legolas answered. "Yet it seems wrong to leave you here with so much destruction to repair; I would wish to help the good folk of Rhudaur restore their homes and lands."

"Nay, your heart is worthy to so desire," advised Elrohir with a kindly smile, one hand upon the younger elf's dripping shoulder, "yet these people are our responsibility. It would go badly for us should Adar learn we kept you here in this deluge, valiant warriors and princes, our esteemed guests, working like commoner labourers. You would not want to doom us to Lord Elrond's Wrath, would you?" The younger twin's grey eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Nay, we shall do nothing to place you in Lord Elrond's bad graces," replied Legolas seriously and his expression was one of such overweening innocence that Elladan at once became suspicious and Elrohir's smile grew large indeed. Thranduil's youngest permitted a grin to upend his lips then, looking very like his father at that moment though most Wood Elves would say he favoured his Naneth in face and form. He bowed once more to Aglahad and the twins and spoke his good-bye. "Eru le anna galu ar oer fael anlû mín aderthad. Namarië, mellyn." (Eru give you good fortune and fair days until our reunion. Farewell, friends.) With that, Legolas signalled his troop to depart and the group filed out of the ruined town on the edge of the west at the feet of the Misty Mountains.

Though their adventure had been harrowing and the rain was almost painful in its intensity, they journeyed on with lighter hearts, pleased to have freed the world of one more dreadful product of Melkor's pride. And truly, no Wood Elf minded going abroad in wet weather and numerous were the sylvan songs composed in praise of precipitation. Such was their mood that Faron began singing one and of course the rest joined in, bathing the heath and heather with such joyful notes that the land exulted.

No such high spirited delight filtered into the ashes spread across the once lush landscape of the Angle. There in the crux of the Bruinen and the Mitheithel, the rich fields and farms had been transformed into barren wastelands, the inhabitants, both man and beast, departed or destroyed by the devastation of the were-worm some days before. We must spare a moment here to learn something more of the aftermath of that tragedy before continuing in the Wood Elves' wake. Thus, we retreat in time to gather this insight:

While Legolas and his royal guard had still been high in the mountains, the Angles were deceived by the lies and treachery described by the Chief of Rhudaur. Those humans that had survived the onslaught were in exodus, the healthy heading south toward the cities of the kings in the land of Gondor: Minas Tirith, Osgilith, Linhir, and Ethring. Those with kin suffering the languishing, slow demise wrought by severe burns sought the haven of Rivendell, for the elven Lord was known in all the lore of the people as a great and compassionate healer. Many were so badly consumed by the dragon's flames that their cause was without hope, yet none could bear to put an end to the life of a loved one, no matter how horrendous the agony was for these victims. A steady stream of refugees straggled into the hidden vale, the fortunate ones bringing their injured in wagons, others struggling to carry them in litters. The House of Healing was soon filled and many elves worked to salvage what life they could.

On the brink of the morn that heralded the foul dragon's death, Elrond laboured tirelessly to aid those that could be saved and instructed his assistants to drug those doomed to die of their hurts. From pallet to pallet he moved, offering comfort and hope, food and rest to the distraught families, healing or painless sleep for the patients. Few of the mortals realised who tended them so gently, for the noble scion of Eärendil wore plain, utilitarian garments spare in volume and durable in design, constructed to make easier the grisly tasks of bathing and packing and stitching and wrapping the battered bodies of the injured.

Elrond's ebony hair was pulled back severely from his brow, bound tightly in a single plait, and secured behind him under the ties of his apron. That item, once crisp and white, was stained and bloodied with the residue of the humans' blackened, seeping lesions. This was the fifth such cover he had used and the night was only just retreating. Hastily he pulled it off and tossed it into a bin overflowing with others of its kind, accepted with a nod of thanks the new one held out by an assistant, and proceeded to the next cot.

Worried grey eyes examined the unconscious woman there, the depths beneath the arched brows revealing the wisdom his years had bought him and the compassion inherent to his nature. His forehead was drawn in lines of distress for great was the need for his help yet despite all the knowledge he had gained Elrond could only treat them one at a time. Some slipped beyond even his ability and the strength of Vilya in the ensuing moments, and these were the hardest cases to face, knowing that with but a speedier intervention one more person might have lived rather than perishing in agony. He heaved a heavy sigh; the woman was failing quickly, too quickly for him to recall her fleeting and slender soul from its final rest. He murmured a swift prayer and gave a minute shake of his head to the attendant at his elbow.

The grief stricken husband saw and bowed his head in acceptance; too many hours he had been forced to sit by helplessly, watching her grow weaker and weaker, begging him with her silent stare to make the pain end. He held her hand as the healer rose, felt a strong grip upon his shoulder and a whisper of a spell and then a tremor passed through the fragile fingers in his grasp. A sigh left his mate's lips and she turned her eyes upon him one last time, joy and peace shining in them just for a second before she fled the ruined husk of her scorched body forever.

Elrond moved on to the next bed.

It had been two days since the dragon's attack and Glorfindel's scouts had been on the prowl for the beast unceasingly, yet nothing notable was reported. It seemed the creature had fled for other lands and just when the noble Lord was about to breathe a grateful prayer of thanks, news was carried on the wings of the wind that the monster was once more devouring the lands, this time north and east of Imladris in the area about the Trollshaws. Elrond scowled as the acrid scent reached him, straightening up and stretching his aching back, stiff from hours of bending over the ill and wounded. A few steps took him out onto the broad veranda running the length of the airy building and he leaned upon the porch rail, gazing with sharp eyes at the smoking horizon under the dawning sky.

Several elves followed him out and a low murmur of frustration and anger arose among them. There was no way to know if Glorfindel's warriors had engaged the dragon or if the haze was the result of another village burning. They could but wait for word to reach them via messenger. The sense of being helpless and ineffectual did not sit well within the hearts of the First-born.

"Is there nothing we can do, Lord?" asked one healer, her voice low for none of the humans could perceive the smoke from this distance nor taste its scent. These people had endured enough; no need to alert them to further catastrophe overtaking their kinfolk in Rhudaur.

Elrond gazed at her specutively, for it went against his instincts also to stand idly by whilst disaster spread just beyond his borders. Not only did he feel responsible for the humans surrounding the valley, this attack was too close to his secluded realm for his comfort. For more centuries than Men could count Imladris had remained obscured from the eyes of foes and the spies of the Enemy. Mayhap this dragon was sent here for a reason, a tool to draw out the remnant of the Noldor and reveal at last their guarded sanctuary. The noble Lord's frown deepened and his right hand moved to worry at the hem of the sleeve draped upon the left. Though none but he could perceive it, a gem blinked and sparked with living fire there upon his index finger. A breath of determination left his lips as Elrond pressed them resolutely into a firm, grim impression of reassuring authority.

"We must trust to Glorfindel's troops. What we have noted here so must they have done. Beyond that, pray for the peoples' deliverance," he said gravely and turned to leave.

"Nothing more, Lord? Could we not send more troops or "

"Or what, Barahin? Allow ourselves to be goaded into foolish decisions and rash actions?"

Elrond's glare was daunting and the elleth dropped her sight to the floorboards as he halted and fixed it upon her.

"Nay, Lord, I did not mean "

"Dîn! Iston man anirach. Ucerin den." (Silence! I know what you wish. I cannot do it.)

Elrond swept past her even as she bowed her apology, stalking away down the stairs to the gardens separating his private home from the infirmary. He cast his harrowed gaze upon the heavens but refrained from expressing the turmoil twisting his soul. Not for the first time, Elrond wished he had not taken on Vilya.

_Nor will it be the last time I look upon it with loathing and regret._

It was a constant worry and a temptation that gnawed upon his spirit, its power wearing upon his heart as water upon rock, seeking to erode his convictions and wash away his resolve.

_What good is it, for never can I use it for more than a shield to hide behind. 'Twould be far better had it never been made._

Yet it had been made and he had agreed to be its Keeper, not realising all those centuries ago what a burden that would become. Removing Vilya to Imladris had seemed fortuitous at first, a last boon from Gil-Galad to his faithful Herald, a token of the esteem between them and the respect Elrond had earned through his dedication and unending efforts against the forces of the Dark Lord. With Sauron defeated and peace spreading throughout Middle-earth, there was little need to fear the elven ring's discovery.

Elrond had used it then, securing his realm's prosperity and protection, obscuring its location from all save those directed by the Valar themselves. He had harnessed its subtle influence over the atmosphere and mastered the ways of governing the seasons, evening the climate and tempering the elements of nature. Imladris shifted from mild spring to gentle autumn with never a day spent in winter's icy grip or summer's burning anvil. It had not seemed like much then, this small implementation of the ring's puissance.

The world had not remained bright and lovely very long. A few short centuries of calm and then the light of freedom dimmed again, darkness growing and overtaking the hearts and minds of the lesser peoples of Arda. The foul and evil creatures became bolder, preying upon the weakness of pride and feeding the insatiable craving for power that ever marked the race of Men, even those of noble blood. Elrond's thoughts turned to wondering if he should extend the influence of Vilya, use it to seek out the source of the cancerous menace spreading to every corner of earth. The desire to do so was strong and grew so omnipresent that finally Elrond recognised it for what it was: the One Ring seeking a means to be discovered and placed in the hands of a being who could wield its might.

_Or rather, someone foolish enough to believe he could do so._ Yet Elrond's soul had become filled with disgust to see how nearly he had succumbed, how easily he could have become the newly chosen Master of Sauron's vile trinket. He had put away Vilya for a time and sent a warning to Galadriel, her admissions of similar temptations no surprise.

As Elrond traversed the half-lit grounds of his estate, his mind raced along the timeline of the numerous battles he had engaged with the enemies of Eru and while his gait was brisk and purposeful yet it remained controlled and composed. Though his expression was stern and serious, still his face did not betray the anguish these memories visited upon him as he relived the deaths of so many that remained dear to his heart. He reached the centre of his favourite spot in the gardens, a clever labyrinth of high yew grown in the convoluted shape of his departed wife's name. Quickly he navigated the silent avenues to its interior where a solitary bench of bent willow waited beneath a very ancient apple tree.

With a wan smile the renowned healer gazed up into its branches, noting an abundance of apples ready to fall and several empty nests from the many birds that had returned to the valley for uncountable generations to raise their young. This was the original tree planted when the labyrinth was planned; one of the many examples of the simple way he had used Vilya to shape his world. The yews were unchanged also, and while growth had ceased long ago the plants were still vital and would remain thus until the ring left with him for Aman.

_When will that day come? How am I to know if it is the right time? Have I delayed too long already?_ He sighed and sat heavily on the bench, leaning his head into his hands and his elbows upon his knees. Safely hidden from the notice of any in his household, Elrond groaned and ground his teeth in bitter disillusionment. He could imagine the terror, torment, and agony of the humans under siege so vividly that he would almost believe he was there in the thick of it watching them burn. He felt his stomach clench and his throat constrict as the smell of charred flesh and bone invaded his presence.

Up he jumped to pace the small enclosure, fighting off the urge to retch, the need to cry out in fierce defiance against the Powers so far removed from the suffering their cohort had unleashed upon Iluvatar's children. It was unjust, unfair, and plain and simply wrong for the Second-born to undergo such strife. Were these not the people destined to rule Middle-earth in the Ages yet to come? Could one renegade Vala so easily topple the plans of Eru the All-Father? How could Manwë permit this travesty to continue?

_I can stop it; just a thought and the creature will cease to exist, destroyed by a flash of lightning or suffocated by an abrupt change in the composition of the air in its vicinity. There are innocents there; do they not deserve a chance to live? Why am I still here if not to stymie this evil?_

The vision of the destruction was so real he felt his foresight was engaged and he truly was witnessing the drama unfold. He conjured an eleventh hour rescue as a troop of elven archers entered the fray, one daring warrior leaping under the beast's very jaws to train a bolt upon its eye. Then Elrond shook his head harshly to drive out the scene, scoffing aloud at this vainglorious fantasy, eager to end the day-dream before he imagined himself leading the charge. Yet mayhap Glorfindel was there and the fate of Rhudaur was being decided even now. Would it be so wrong to give them some assistance?

With effort he forced his eyes upward into the cold grey vestige of night, there to seek the glittering beacon of the Morning Star. He was not disappointed; Eärendil was there, faithful as ever, a single note of hope sounding through the dreadful dirge of violence and remorse. The Song, he remembered, the Song was unending and ever changing. Even the Powers held neither its harmony nor its discord within their hands. Like the First-born, they were bound to it, dancers or musicians or both, swept up in its mesmerising rhythms, entranced by the complexity of its swiftly shifting themes.

Elrond sighed. _Perhaps Manwë has similar moments of conflict, wishing to intervene but forced to employ indirect methods at best._ The crisis passed and he was himself again, Elrond Peredhel, healer and lore-master of Imladris.

He straightened up, stretching once more, this time to ease the tension wrought from his internalised rage, and breathed deeply to steady his pulse and order his thoughts. The rank odour of fire and smoke assaulted his nostrils anew as a gusty breeze billowed his robes about his ankles.

Then he decided and just like that a great wind out of the west tossed the trees' branches vigorously and sent an armload of fruit cascading down around him. The yew hedge quivered and the sky darkened; a storm was rising and ere many minutes had passed a distant boom of thunder rolled into the valley, still mighty enough to rattle the glass in the windows of the Last Homely House.

Elrond smiled as he headed out of the maze and back to the House of Healing, pleased that there would be no more burn victims added to his wards.

TBC

© 29/12/2006 Ellen Robey

* * *

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.  
Elvish names and such:

Guanunig (One of a pair of twins)  
Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filgod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter 4 - Rivendell**

"Raining buckets."

"A real down pour."

"Enough rain to choke a frog and drown earthworms."

"Raining pitchforks."

"Raining sideways to Tuesday."

"A real gulley-washer."

"Raining cats and dogs."

Light laughter, muted by the steady din of the relentless storm, followed this last bit of descriptive imagery as the pair of border guards leaned against the bark of the tall elm tree near the ford of the Bruinen.

"Humans! What quaint notions they invent!"

"Aye. What do you suppose it means, raining cats and dogs?"

"Who knows. Maybe it is supposed to remind of the way a dog chases after a cat."

"Never in all my life have I seen rain that resembles that. Perhaps it is just meant to be funny, nothing at all to do with what rain is like."

"No, no, I think I understand it now. They mean the rain is interrupting their day or their plans; it is an aggravation, like a dog chasing a cat through the house would be."

A short silence followed as the second guard considered his cohort's explanation. Then he smiled and shrugged.

"At least that makes sense. Sometimes I wonder if the mortals understand anything at all about the weather."

"Well, who does, besides Lord Elrond?"

"Aye, you've a point; I admit that."

"And our sayings regarding the phenomenon are not so much better. Consider 'Nienna is weeping' or 'Manwë and Ulmo arguing up a storm.' Those are just foolishness, too."

"True, but only children say such."

"Nay, I've heard all kinds of rain quotations from mature elves, even First-age elders. What about 'Rain enough to make the river run backwards.' Now that is simply ridiculous." Both guards chuckled over it a moment.

"Raining hard enough to make a Dwarf clean."

"It's a good day for hunting Balrogs."

"Clouds as close as a brooding hen."

"That's not rain-based. You lose a point."

"It is too rain-based. You only get rain from such clouds."

"Doesn't matter, this game is for rain sayings not before-the-rain sayings."

"Fine, then, point to you." The chastised warrior ceded the round and fell silent, considering his next try more carefully.

His friend waited patiently for they had a long watch to stand and no one was about on such an uncharacteristically wet morning. There hadn't been rain so heavy in Imladris in more years than either one could recall. They wore their travelling cloaks and had their hoods pulled down low over their faces for the tree's branches provided little protection against the ongoing deluge. Visibility was severely reduced in the watery air and hearing much dampened by the omnipresent splashing of thousands of drops striking the churning surface of the Bruinen.

Even so, their keen eyes searched for travellers upon the grey-sheeted pathway on the opposite side of the ford. Any day a party from Mirkwood was expected and both guards were eager to meet these foreign Elves. Neither one had been to Mirkwood or met any Wood Elves, unless one counted the Galadhrim, not a comparison the folk of Lorien would appreciate very much.

"All right, I have one: 'Rain like mithril needles.' My grandma says that sometimes."

"Good! Here's another: 'Rain fat with winter's snow.' Made that one up myself."

"Lord Elrond must be in a foul mood."

"Was that supposed to be your contribution to this round?" asked the first with incredulous exasperation. His comrade generally had a sharp mind and was good company. "Mayhap the rain has your brain too wet to function properly. Say, that's a good one: 'Raining too hard to think straight.'" He smiled triumphantly as the second guard groaned.

"That was not meant to be my go; I was making a legitimate observation on the true cause of this unexpected precipitation. And it is unfair to take two turns in a row, you forfeit a point."

"Oh all right! Go on and have your say, then."

"Well I warrant it's enough water to douse dragon-fire, and no joke."

"Indeed! I believe you've solved the puzzle. Lord Elrond must have done this to aid the poor folk up past the 'shaws."

They shared serious looks as a garish streak of lightning cracked across the sky seconds ahead of the rumbling boom of its thunder. The pair remained sombre and quiet for a time, thinking on the cruel fate overtaking the humans just beyond their fair realm's boundaries. Another dazzling display of forking incandescence zigzagged overhead and the sound in its wake was like the crash and clamour of a rock slide. It was so loud they both startled and lifted their hands to shield sensitive ears. The noise seemed to echo in their heads for a minute or two and perhaps that is why neither one noticed the new sound until its creators were almost upon them.

With expressions revealing both amazement and amusement in equal parts, the border guards gaped at the shapes materialising out of the vague and rain shrouded air of the tree-line on the far shore. It was the party from Mirkwood, of course, every one of the thoroughly soaked Wood Elves brightly singing a bawdy song about the mishaps arising whilst making love amid rain slickened branches during an early summer shower.

The silvans had neither cloaks not hoods and their simple garments were so drenched it seemed their skin was green and brown. Their small packs sagged heavily on the straps supporting them and the fletching of the arrows in their quivers nearly wilted in the deluge. Long hair lay plastered close against their scalps, streams of water coursing down the braided locks like fluent fingers. The Wood Elves halted on the muddy banks as the final chorus was sung in laughing disharmony and then Filigod stepped forward, right hand upraised in greeting.

"Mae Govannen, mellynen," (Well met, my friends.) he called to the guards. "We are Aran Thranduil's emissaries, sent to learn of our western kindred. This must be the ford into the Hidden Vale, else you would not be standing watch here, and yet I fear we may not cross in this wild torrent." And that was so, for the Bruinen was rising swiftly and what should be a broad, shallow, sandy creek had transformed into a deep, swift, ruddy cataract. "Have you rope to steady our footing?"

"Suilad, Elves of Mirkwood "

"Greenwood!" shouted Legolas with a warning glare visible even through the thick curtain of rain.

"Your pardon," the offending guard gave a half-bow in apology and started over. "Suilad, Elves of Greenwood! I fear we haven't any rope with us. One of us will go for horses."

"Nay, no need for that," answered Filigod. "Send word ahead that will we cross further north and may be delayed a bit, but do not trouble your Lord for transport."

"Further north?" the guard scoffed and shared a look with his comrade. "There is no ford beyond this point. Around yon bend in the course, the Bruinen is overhung with cypress trees and the banks are rocky and steep beyond that. The channel is narrower, 'tis true, but too deep and too treacherous even for horses."

"We are not going into the channel, have no fears. Send word of our advance," called Filigod once more and then the Wood Elves filed away, disappearing back into the concealment of the dripping leaves as their leader began another light-hearted song.

For a minute or so the guards just stared at the empty shoreline, listening to the diminishing voices as the Elves departed. When the song was beyond their hearing, they faced each other with disbelief and uncertainty on their comely features.

"They are mad. No one can cross beyond this point even in good weather. We had best send for help at once," said one.

"Aye, you must inform Lord Erestor; he'll know what to do," agreed the other.

"Why must I go? Lord Erestor will not be pleased. I do not want to be the one to bring this news."

"You won the honour by losing the game and because I have already had to deal with Lord Erestor this day. I had to endure a lecture on the proper way to greet a Wood Elf just before I left for duty. As if he knows anything about how to greet a Wood Elf."

"Well maybe he does; Lord Erestor is a First-age elder. They say he knew some of the woodland king's kin in Doriath," argued the second guard.

"And just who are 'they' I'd like to know? Go along and find him, then, since you are so keen on his wisdom and knowledge where these silvan folk are concerned. I will stay here and count the bodies as they go floating off downstream," grumbled the first and with that unpleasant notion the two parted.

Their fears were unfounded, however, for the Wood Elves had no intention of getting caught in Bruinen's flood. They had rope with them, of course, for no silvan patrol ever went abroad among the trees without at least two coils of it on hand. Yet even with both pieces tied together the resulting length of the rope would be insufficient to span the river where the shallow ford usually permitted easy crossing. So naturally they would need to journey on to a place where the channel was narrower and the trees grew closer to the levee. Not more than a league around the curve of the land they located such a spot.

Up into the trees they went, silent now as they prepared for the endeavour, and watched as Legolas scrambled out onto a slender limb stretching over the churning water far below. He did not hesitate, leaping lightly into the air and performing an artistic somersault of two and a half revolutions before grasping onto the corresponding limb of a tree rooted to the opposite side. This maneouver elicited a few whistles and some admonishment against showing off as he managed a tight bow, smiling back to his fellows. Then he took the combined rope from his pack and knotted it securely to the trunk, casting the remainder to Faron poised on the branch from which Legolas had launched himself.

In no time all the Wood Elves made it over the river, treading the taut rope as securely as if it had been a bridge an arm's reach wide. A few attempted to mimic their prince's acrobatics, one walking on his hands, another hopping one-footed across, and Mallavorn tried a mid-air spin that nearly caused him to miss his grasp upon the water-soaked rope. That earned him a round of laughter and friendly teasing. A fine show it was and each Elf gave fitting appreciation for his comrades' efforts until Filigod, last to cross, was over.

Now though the Wood Elves were officially within the borders of Imladris, they were still high up on the surrounding rim of rocky land that helped obscure the reclusive colony from unwanted notice. The heavily forested heights were not inhabited by the Noldorin Elves, however, and so the pathways were few and those that existed were made by deer and smaller game. None of those tracks led down into the valley directly. Undaunted, the silvans took to the trees once more, surveying the landscape from the dripping firs as they got their bearings. As it turned out, the canyon walls were quite steep and the torrential down-pour made the way dangerously slick. It required a slow and cautious descent for the Elves of the Greenwood, though they were more sure of foot than any of the First-born.

Once the floor of the valley was achieved, the silvan warriors realised they had no idea where in the realm they were. Was Lord Elrond's dwelling still the Last Homely House or would it now be the First? They paused briefly to discuss this and decided to simply approach the first abode they came upon and ask the occupants for directions. They could see lights a ways down the vale and made for them, arriving at the tidy cottage in about an hour's passing.

No doubt the Elves who answered the door were surprised to find ten wet Wood Elves on their doorstep, but they were polite enough not to comment on the strangeness of it all. While everyone in Imladris knew the strangers were soon to arrive, none expected them to randomly show up, unannounced and unlooked for, at their private homes. Once the introductions were over and the query made and answered, it was revealed that Thranduil's emissaries were in the far northernmost corner of Rivendell with the Lord's estate nearly a half day's walk away.

Thus it was that the border guard, using the well constructed road that ran right to the main gates of the Last Homely House, arrived far ahead of the visitors. He found the Lord's seneschal in his office.

"The Elves from Mirkwood have reached the ford," he said quietly, "and asked me to go ahead and let you know they would arrive as soon as they completed the crossing."

True, he down-played the situation somewhat, hoping to make his audience with Lord Erestor shorter, but for that we may freely forgive him. The Wood Elves were not really in any danger, after all, and would not have liked for a troop of Noldorin warriors to come and 'save' them from a simple walk under the weeping heavens. Lord Erestor waved him off back to his post, suspecting nothing amiss, and so began his protracted period of anticipation in the front courtyard of Elrond's estate.

Several hours later, Legolas and Faron led the way obliquely to the rear of the house, entering the grounds through the paddocks and the stable yard. Their song again preceded them and drew the attention of the off-duty warriors quartered in barracks close by. They peered from the lighted windows and doorways, not certain what to make of the quaint procession. The silvans smiled and waved in greeting, not wishing to stop their song, and the Noldorin folk returned amused and bewildered grins in reply. A couple of the more senior warriors, having donned cloaks and high boots, stepped forward to bar the way and finally the cheerful singing faltered.

"Where did you come from and where might you be going, folk of the woods?" asked one, friendly but cautious. He could not permit this bunch of unknown elves to walk into the Last Homely House as if they owned the place, though surely he knew these must be the expected party of Wood Elves. "Are you scouts sent ahead to ensure your princes' comfort?"

"We are going where it is dry!" called out Faron and his fellows laughed appreciatively.

"And our princes are before you now," Legolas announced. "There is one, Legolas the younger son," he indicated Faron, "and here is Celon'lir, Thranduil's heir."

With that introduction Mallavorn stepped forward with his most pretentious swagger and gave a courtly bow.

"Mae govannen, people of Imladris," he bellowed magnanimously to the elves huddled under the dripping eaves and crowded on the porches, turning and waving to all and sundry. "Take us to your leader." Behind him Filigod groaned softly and shook his head.

The two Noldorin warriors were nothing if not shocked to see princes so indistinguishable from any other soldier, and wetter than river trout to boot. They exchanged their dismay through a hastily shared glance and sought to correct any breach of proper etiquette, bowing low to Mallavorn.

"Suilad, Ernil Celon'lir," said one. "Please forgive this poor welcome; your party was expected in the main courtyard and even now Lord Erestor awaits you there."

"Oh no apologies are required, my good sir," Mallavorn appeased the elf. "We will be satisfied with a warm fire and mayhap a good hot stew."

"If I may, Ernilen," interjected Filigod sternly, frowning as Mallavorn turned to him with a smug and haughty simper. "Permit me to fetch Lord Erestor while you and the guards take shelter from the storm."

"An excellent proposal, Filigod; we concur," Faron stepped up and answered for his brother-in-mischief. He sniffed the air noisily, turning his head from side to side. "I smell fresh bread baking; where there is bread one finds a kitchen, and in a kitchen will be a fire. Lead on, my Noldorin guides, let us adjourn to the cook's domain!" he exhorted grandly and moved hastily out of Filigod's reach. The rest of the silvan warriors ratified his proposal with a loud cheer, Legolas foremost to back his friend, and the two Imladrian captains could do naught but comply.

A small crowd followed the silvan troop, who resumed singing as soon as they took the first step, slipping through the drenched and heavy air into the kitchen gardens, heading for the locus of the culinary aromas. Into the cheery building they marched, dripping with rain water yet still harmonising merrily, called a greeting to the cook and her staff, and hurried for the huge fireplace alight with a crackling blaze. There Filigod left them, with great reluctance and a silent prayer for peace he just knew would go unanswered.

No sooner was he gone than trouble started. As quick as you could blink, Legolas produced his rope again and with Faron's aid strung it across the width of the room. While they were so engaged, the remaining warriors stripped down and set about draping the saturateded garments over the impromptu clothesline to dry out. Legolas and Faron did likewise and in mere seconds the kitchen was filled with naked Wood Elves. They opened their packs and brought forth combs and amid a great deal of light-hearted chatter began the work of drying off and de-tangling their storm-mussed hair. Mallavorn called for towels and at first no one noticed that the request was not answered.

Elrond's conservative Noldorin kitchen staff gasped and gawked, robbed of speech, incapable of thought, eyes bulging in shocked, albeit appreciative, disbelief. That lasted until the soldiers poked their heads in through the back door and found the sight highly amusing. They piled inside the suddenly crowded kitchen and ringed the nude elves. In no time they set to whistling and leering and shouting out all manner of lewd comments and suggestions, making fun of such primitive behaviour, for the vision before them certainly seemed to prove the myths told of the Wood Elves' lack of civilised manners and morals.

"Ai Valar! They are shameless!" laughed one. "You there, just what do you think this is? Don't you know it's not decent to go around bare as a newborn babe?"

"Who cares; just look at that arse!"

"Of course he doesn't know. They live in the open like animals. They probably go around naked all the time in their dreary woods."

"Ooh, there's a pretty image! Come closer, fair warrior, give me a kiss and I'll give you a tumble!"

"Watch you don't get too close and burn any important bits."

"I'll be glad to help warm you!"

"Don't bother; they probably can't even understand us."

"We understand you," said Legolas, more than a hint of menace in his voice. He and his cohorts had been just as shocked by this uncouth outburst as had the cook staff been by the unexpected exposure to so much wet, bare skin. The woodland warriors recovered their wits quickly, however, and grew angrier with every teasing taunt. "We are not animals. Nor do we feel shame for the bodies Eru gave us. Are we to stand around, cold and wet, until our garments eventually dry-out?"

"Nay, silvan elfling, but you should wait until you are in the privacy of your rooms to undress. Haven't you any manners at all?"

"I am not an elfling!" Legolas was on his feet and would have challenged this insult had his friends not quickly grabbed his arms to halt him.

"Oh? My mistake. In Imladris, only a child would flaunt himself so casually, especially with so little to flaunt," another voice jeered and all the spectators laughed at that. "Unless you are offering something?"

"Or maybe asking for something. Hoping for a little loving attention, pretty one?" .

"Seems you are the ones like animals, if the mere sight of unclothed skin inspires you to breed," sneered Legolas. "We silvans are a bit more evolved in choosing where and with whom such activities occur."

"Of course you are; that's why you've travelled all the way to Imladris. You'll be wanting a strong Noldorin stud to mount you."

"I'll be glad to accommodate you, wood sprite, just bring that fine tight arse closer and I'll breed you here and now."

That was more than the Wood Elves could stand. Faron and Legolas shared a grim glance and with a blood-curdling war-cry launched themselves into the knot of Noldorin soldiers, fists and feet flying. The other silvans joined them and a frenetic fight broke out in the kitchen. The cook and her assistants fled, calling for help and bringing half the household staff out into the vegetable garden between the main building and the kitchen.

It was a terrible row, for Wood Elves are fierce and proud and didn't take well to being propositioned like trollops or slatterns and likened to poorly endowed elflings. They were intent not only upon pounding such notions out of the Noldorin's brains but were determined to divest the soldiers of their garments, too. All the better to level the field and return the insults. Plus, there were numerous deadly objects at hand: cutting, chopping, and carving knives, cast iron pots and pans, fireplace tongs and pokers, and even logs of wood.

In no time everyone was armed with something and madly battering whatever body happened to come within range. A horrendous cacophony of shouting and cursing mixed with the bizarre sound of pots parried by pokers, knives screeching against cookie sheets held up as shields, and groans and cries of misery when some unfortunate soul took a direct blow or a glancing slice.

Hastening around the side of the house, Erestor met Filigod, whom he recognised from the grim victory of the Last Alliance, and together they pushed and shoved through the throng of normally calm and peaceable Imladrian citizens blocking the path. They were anything but civil in manner this night, shouting and gesturing like mortals at some crude sporting match and were stubbornly unwilling to cede their spots before the kitchen's entry. With much effort the two advisors managed to break through and stood upon the threshold just in time to see the battle come to its utter peak of frenzied mayhem.

The room was a writhing, flailing mass of naked and half-naked elves leaping over tables and swinging from the rafters, grappling and punching and wrestling under foot, slashing and parrying and fending off cauldrons, ducking flaming brands while pulling hair, biting, kicking, and screaming obscenities in so many different languages that the offending words were no more than a harrowing roar. Many wars had Erestor fought and likewise Filigod was accustomed to all manner of combat, but here was a spectacle the like of which neither had ever witnessed.

"By Elbereth!" boomed Erestor, absolutely incensed. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Have you all gone mad?" shouted Filigod beside him. "Stop this at once!" Frantically scanning the gyrating mass for Legolas, he caught sight of Thranduil's youngest and drew a relieved breath to find him still standing and not overtly bloody, his fighting stance perfect as he held one of the Noldorin warriors at bay with a frying pan and a log.

Their combined remonstrance halted the erring elves almost as one. Almost. Faron ceased sparring and lowered his carving knives, allowing his opponent to take advantage of the lapse and swing at his head with a bulky cauldron. Faron ducked neatly, but as he was poised almost back-to-back with Legolas, the heavy pot crashed right into the younger prince's head, sending him reeling. Seeing his nemesis thus disoriented, the Noldorin warrior seized the moment and swept out his leg to upset the stunned Wood Elf. The tactic worked beautifully. Legolas sprawled backwards and fell with a tremendous thud to the floor, striking his head again on the edge of the brick hearth. He was knocked senseless and every eye turned to him in horror, every heart stilled for a short, breathless second as a bright scarlet ribbon began trickling down his face.

Filigod and Erestor did not hesitate, leaping into the momentary quietude before the sight of the inert and bleeding figure became the catalyst for a renewed attack by the loyal silvan elves. Together they shoved everyone back to reach the unconscious elf and knelt beside him. Filigod again breathed a grateful prayer to Orome, who was supposed to watch over Wood Elves, for on cursory examination Legolas' skull did not seem to be fractured. The pronounced bleeding was the result of a long jagged gash where his head had connected with the raised bricks.

Erestor grunted as he stood up, a strange sound comprised of equal parts disdain and appreciation for the naked, senseless form prone beside the hearth, unaware of course that the injured elf was Thranduil's son, and gazed about until he spotted two Noldorin soldiers still clothed sufficiently to be decent. He motioned for them to approach.

"Carry him to the healing wards and then confine yourselves to quarters. Lord Glorfindel will prescribe fitting reprisals for your unseemly behaviour," he ordered. "The rest of you return to the barracks immediately for the same reason. I assure you all, Lord Elrond will hear of this."

Under his piercing gaze of absolute disgust, the Imladrian warriors shrank silently out the way they had come in, not daring to utter any complaint or comment. Nonetheless, every one of them held rancour in their hearts for the visitors, for to their minds these foreign elves had caused the ruckus and brought them this doom. It would be fair to say many wordless oathes of vengeance were sworn that night.

"As for the rest of you, permit me to quote your King: 'treat them as you would your own'. That being your sovereign's wish, you, too, shall suffer the consequences of such disorderly, _orcish_ antagonism of your fellows. Your punishment begins with setting this kitchen to rights. Once that is done, Filigod will escort you to the barracks to which you have been assigned. What manner of sentence you receive shall be left to the discretion of Glorfindel," Erestor's disapproving voice droned, his eyes searching the bedraggled, bruised and bleeding knot of shamefaced silvans. He scowled in distaste, refusing to speculate on why they were all naked. "And for Manwe's sake, get dressed! Which of you are Thranduil's sons?"

Before Filigod could answer, Faron spoke.

"I am Legolas, Thranduil's youngest, and there is Celon'lir, Greenwood's heir." Faron felt terrible, for had he not lowered his guard Legolas would not have been exposed, defensively speaking, and that sneaky Noldo soldier would never have gotten a chance to hurt him. He knew how much Legolas hated to be bested and how he dreaded being confined indoors. Now he would be sequestered by the healers until they were satisfied the damage was repaired, and if they learned who he was, they would only keep him bed-bound longer. Thus, though Faron knew the wise thing to do would be to relinquish the identity swap, his heart bade him to obey his prince's will. He kept talking to prevent Filigod from contradicting him. "The fallen elf is my cousin and best friend, Faron. I would go to him, sir, and ensure he is well."

Erestor was about to agree, for he saw no reason not to, but even as he opened his mouth his Greenwood counterpart beat him to it.

"Nay, Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince). Lord Erestor is correct; you Adar wishes you and your brother to be treated the same as any other warrior here. No special privilege may be extended, even in this case. Your cousin will be fine under the competent care of Imladris' skilled healers. When they deem it is wise and Glorfindel grants leave, then you may visit."

Filigod's tone left no room for argument and he stared coldly at Faron. He was not about to disobey Legolas' order but neither would he abet the scheme. Filigod was sure Legolas would waken in a disoriented state and unwittingly give away his true identity. Thus, he would not be able to accuse anyone, meaning Filigod, of betraying him. This was an important consideration as far as the advisor was concerned, for the younger prince's temper was spectacular.

Faron glowered, his cutting glance clearly promising some odious retribution, but he turned away to sort out his garments from the tattered mass of clothing strewn about the room.

Next Filigod called Mallavorn over to his side and the warrior came at once, choosing to take the one leg he had just stuffed into his damp leggings out instead of shoving the bare one in. He stood before the two councillors, an expectant expression filling his eyes, one of which sported a stunning black and swollen bruise, tunic hanging open and lower half exposed. Filigod stifled the urge to shake him and took a calming breath.

"Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince), isn't there something you would like to say to Lord Erestor?" he prompted. Filigod regretted mentioning it at once, seeing the look of pure befuddlement wash through Mallavorn's one open eye.

The vain warrior's brow creased as he tried to think of what Filigod might be hinting at. What would Celon'lir do on such a visit? He almost laughed out loud, imagining the disrespectful and flippant reply the crowned prince would make, all the words correct and proper but their meaning skewed by tone and demeanour to the side of pure insult. With effort he stifled the irreverent snort and mastered himself. He knew he could never successfully render such an insolent salutation. His head hurt ferociously and he could hardly put two thoughts together in a coherent sequence. Mallavorn cleared his throat and faced Lord Erestor, who was watching him with bland appraisal, and attempted a dignified smile.

"Mae govannen, Lord Elrond. My esteemed Sire sends his greetings and felicitations, charging me and my brother to do our utmost to further the bonds of friendship between our respective realms." He tried to bow and nearly fell over, stomach rolling dangerously as Filigod grabbed his elbow and righted him. Mallavorn moaned and delicately palpated a contusion at his temple.

"Very nice, Ernilen, except this is not Lord Elrond," corrected Filigod, taking pity on the addle-pated warrior. "What Celon'lir means to do is offer the apologies of our warriors for their part in this regrettable incident of violence," he said to Erestor.

"Well, well, I suppose that will have to suffice," murmured Erestor, not sure if he wished to frown or grin.

This was certainly not a very good start for Thranduil's offspring and the night's events were sure to become a favourite story in the Hall of Fire. Such humiliation as this would be nearly impossible to counter and the woodland elves were sure to be subjected to much scorn and derision from the Imladrian guard. Indeed, he could hardly wait to tell Elrond. Erestor decided to smile; the long hours in the rain had been worth it after all.

TBC

© 29/12/2006 Ellen Robey

* * *

Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.  
Elvish names and such:

Guanunig (One of a pair of twins)  
Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filgod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 - In the House of Healing**

Elrond sighed as he rose from the bedside of the human child, a young girl of nine summers, so said her mother, and named for that season in the elven tongue: Laer. She had brassy locks and a freckled nose and frightened green eyes.

Laer was doing her very best to be brave in the face of pain and illness to spare her mother more worry and sorrow, for the family, once complete with two parents and a second child, now consisted of only mother and daughter. Laer didn't complain when her bandages were changed and another layer of decaying flesh was removed from the festering burn running the length of her calf. She took whatever medicine the elves brought with a smile of thanks and tried to eat when her mother exhorted her to do so.

The elven healer smiled down at her with admiration and kindness; those who imagined the Second-born to be weak and failing obviously had never met a human like Laer. The little girl was truly beautiful in the way of all children, even though body and spirit were marred by terror and agony, her features strained by long suffering so that years not yet lived had been added to her innocent eyes.

Elrond was determined that she would survive and was going beyond the normal means to ensure it, subtly employing the power of Vilya to grant the child strength and fortitude, for the healing process would be lengthy and excruciating. Laer would be his patient for many months to come, but no matter; she would sing and laugh and play again. Before that day, however, Laer was going to lose most of her left leg.

He had told her and the child had borne the news calmly and with a kind of relief, for she instinctively knew the diseased limb was quickly infecting the rest of her being.

"That's all right," she said with a tired smile. "Will it be soon? The quicker it's gone the faster I'll heal up," Laer added, sounding more like a consulting healer than an ailing patient.

"Aye, I think tomorrow we must proceed for the infection is spreading more rapidly now. I will give you a strong sleeping potion so you will not have to feel any pain. The leg will be very sore when you wake up, though, so we will have to add those bad tasting herbs to your wine for a time," the noble Lord confided, his admiration for this little girl growing by the second.

"Oh, then you shall have to make it up to me with lovely sweets when I am better, won't you," Laer demanded.

"I shall indeed, penneth," agreed Elrond gravely. "I would like you to take a sleeping potion tonight as well, for your body needs as much strength as can be conserved for the stress it must endure tomorrow."

"I suppose so," the child sighed with resignation. "Will you give one to Mama, too? And better not to say anything about the new treatment, either. She will become very upset and cry and say silly things about dancing at weddings and such."

"Nay, I cannot keep this news from her, but I will wait until you are sleeping before I tell her. Once she understands it will be well; you will see," soothed Elrond as he prepared the drug and helped the girl drink it down. Then he sat beside her on the edge of the cot and held her hand, singing softly until she was fast asleep.

With a sigh he rose and turned, his gaze sweeping the crowded ward. The storm had passed and Elrond was certain the dragon was no more, even though no news had returned from Glorfindel as yet. Moonlight bathed the peaceful room; its cool, sedating gleam spilling in from the open archways to highlight white coverlets and smoothly polished pine wood floors. The soft comfort of a light breeze kept the air in the packed space fresh, carrying the scent of rain-washed earth inside.

It was quiet but for the chorus of frogs rejoicing in drenched jubilation and the subdued friction of leaf brushing leaf in the fragrant zephyrs. That and the subtle, soporific percussion of remnant rainwater gathering into droplets on the veranda's eaves and the tips of leaves, there to lose purchase and slip away, splashing into puddles pooled upon the ground. The deluge was done; the fear expunged, elements balanced, and harmony supplanted tension. This was a place of healing and Elrond was pleased, after hours of desperate struggle to preserve life, to sense that healing was commencing at last. He was confident that those sleeping would awaken in the morn.

His patients rested within the serenity of Vilya's protection, drifting not through memory's nocturnal reservoir but amid visions of majesty and peace they would not be permitted to recall once night gave way to returning day. They slumbered, unaware of the aides watching over their repose, unconscious of the sub-audible caress of elven song that barred the chilling scenes fraught with fire and pain and anxious dread. In reverie they wandered, floating in the gentle embrace of Iluvatar's Song, sharing for a few hours an elysian paradise wherein two beings of exquisite beauty and kindness tended them with compassion and sympathy. It was an experience never to be reproduced once health and vitality returned and one they would not remember, yet even so they would benefit from it all their remaining days.

While it seemed this sight should prompt a satisfied smile, Elrond frowned. There were entirely too many bodies in the place; all the cots and beds filled with the recovering patients, every seat and pallet occupied by worried, exhausted kin. Yet many more had perished, the ward was not so full as it had been. Not since the defeat of the Witch King at Angmar had Elrond's healing skills been required on such a scale. He had hoped never to be in such demand again, but now his heart forebode that this was but a glimpse of future horrors. The days felt heavier, seemed darker, sounded disharmonious to his soul.

Doubts crowded his mind and pulled tight around his fretting heart; when would come the time spoken of in the Elder Days? Elrond was weary and knew it, yet could not rein back his pessimistic mood, replaying the internal strife of the previous day. When would Men inherit the land and set free the elves to journey home at last? He had witnessed already the rise and fall of human-kind twice over. Was there truly any hope left, any small remnant of the nobility of his brother's lineage? What Man could arise from the degenerate stock available? Surely not one of Tar-Minastir's calibre.

His scowl deepened as he turned toward the far end of the room. He was waiting, always waiting, waiting and hoping for the return of a strong king to the realm of Gondor. He was lonely, so lonely and empty and bereft of comfort; his children grown and his wife departed for the Holy Shores of Aman across the Sundering Sea. Elrond sighed; loneliness, weariness, and emptiness aside, he could not sail until this last, this most important of Elros' heirs arrived. _Manwë alone knows how distant is that hour._

As he walked Elrond let his insight linger over the injured, assessing their condition, for the gruelling battle against death was still too near for him to entirely trust that it was over. Despite the evidence of healing before him, he would remain in the wards a few days more so to counter setbacks and resurgent infections, a common problem whenever he treated human injury or illness. He would not sleep in his own bed, not yet, not until Laer was fit enough to be put in a comfortable cottage under her mother's attention. A faint smile graced his lips; that would be a good day. He wanted to see that day, to be there when she would finally smile a true smile and laugh a really childish laugh, a giggly, bubbling laugh such as only little girls can produce when they are happy and free of cares and woes and unspeakable agony.

He passed the last bed and continued on. At the furthest corner of the ward was an area screened off from the patients and in it were his supplies of herbs and potions, bandages and basins, needles and obsidian scalpels. There was also a cot, low and comfortable with a feather mattress and down-filled pillow. There he had reclined for a few hours every night since the first victim of the dragon had arrived, coaxing his mind into tranquility and his body into stillness. There he would rest now. He found himself hurrying, more fatigued than he'd been willing to admit, eager to lie flat and stretch out his complaining spine. One of his healers left the enclosure, moving to intercept him, to stay him from this goal, and the elven Lord could not restrain his aggravation.

"What more, Barahin?" he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest as though to deflect whatever demand her lips might voice.

Clearly, his tone took her aback, for the lady balked and bowed low, using the formal move to hide the fidgeting of her fingers where they twisted in her gown. "Hîren, I regret to tell you this, but we've had to make use of your bed." Her voice was barely above a whisper, as much from dismay as to preserve the serenity of the environment.

"Another patient?" Surprise and dread shouldered aside Elrond's irritation. He'd been so sure of his efforts against the dragon's fire.

"Aye, Lord. It was necessary; there were no more cots free, for we allowed the exhausted kin of the wounded to rest in those emptied by the deceased. It seemed wrong to us for them to lie upon the floor when there was room." Barahin found her courage and boldly stated her reasoning, counting on her Lord's compassionate nature to agree with her decision. "We did not wish to disturb them from slumber, for they need this time in reverie as much as do the injured."

"You did well," Elrond nodded, proud of her both for speaking up and for her gracious consideration of their patients' families. "Who is this new patient, one of Glorfindel's warriors? Is there news of a victory?"

"No, Hîren; there has been no word from the 'shaws as yet. This is one of the Wood Elves from Mirkwood. He was injured in a brawl but there is no real danger; it is but a mild concussion and a small laceration. Hîr Erestor ordered him carried here until he regains consciousness."

"A brawl? We have missed some excitement, it seems," Elrond grinned, imagining Erestor's exasperation over such a thing. "No matter, send one of the aides to the barracks for some bedding. It won't be the first time I've rested upon the floor." He moved on past Barahin, knowing she would not try to argue with him. They had worked long years together in these wards and she understood his dedication to the sick under his care.

A few steps carried him the remainder of the distance and he entered the combined office and storage chamber. The room was lit by the wavering flame of a single candle, its orange light dancing. Disturbed by the lift and fall of the curtained door, the dusky glow flickered, casting oblique illumination amid the darkened space, highlighting in sharp relief a succession of instruments and fixtures until it settled and burned true. He spared a glance toward the shadowed alcove where the warrior lay upon the bed, a motionless and featureless form, the frail light insufficient to reveal any detail save a faint shimmer as of bronze where long, heavy tresses hung over the side dripping a puddle on the floor. Elrond made a face expressive of mild displeasure and turned away; the mattress would need to be dried out and aired now.

Beside his sturdy work table, Elrond found a tub and tepid water along with everything required to ensure a refreshing wash. He smiled at the consideration of his staff, hastily undressed, and stepped into the basin, eager to be clean. Dipping a pitcher into the water, he doused it over his upturned face, relishing the sensation of the warm liquid cascading over his shoulders and chest, running down his back, trickling over his thighs, splashing noisily into the copper basin. The flow sluiced away the rancourous discontent wrought by unanswerable questions posed over the course of endless, patient centuries. He repeated the procedure until the sound and the sensation silenced every thought belonging to his uneasy frustration.

Next, he grabbed a small, coarse sponge and a pot of soap, dipped the first in the second, then squeezed and kneaded the perforated fibres until his hands dripped with thick, creamy lather. That brought dulcet nostalgia to his heart; since childhood he'd loved the similarity between the foamy stuff and clouds, imagining he had made the heaven-bound fluff and was washing in it. A quiet laugh filled the room.

Contented, Elrond rubbed the slippery froth across his chest, the back of his neck, over and under each arm. Concentrating solely on the motion, he scrubbed in small swift circles, rubbing off the thin residue of grime the day's work had generated, relishing the invigorating rush of enhanced circulation. He passed the sponge over his abdomen and groin, his buttocks and thighs, finally reaching round to massage away the tightness in his back. He reached for the pitcher again; it required four rinses to remove all the suds and soap.

Through the garrulous splashing of the falling water, he heard a low moan and paused, glancing through the darkness toward the sound. He detected no movement, however, and determined the recovering warrior was only just beginning to regain consciousness.

That did not deter the elven Lord from completing his ablutions; there was still his hair to wash and he set to it with gusto. Elrond stepped out of the basin and knelt beside it, presenting his back to the patient on the cot, and freed his long ebony locks from the severe braid, leaning forward so they cascaded over the side. He filled the pitcher again and again, pouring the water over his head until the thick mane was fully saturated, and was vigourously working the soap through the strands when a long, whispery sigh drifted from the alcove. It was not exactly a sound of distress yet Elrond paused nonetheless, trying in vain to see through the drape of wet hair.

Where his eyes failed him his ears did not and the healer recognised the subtle sound of the sylvan elf shifting on the bed. Elrond rinsed his hair quickly ere he stood and turned to the dim niche again. The shadowed figure was still poorly defined yet there was enough light to see that he had raised himself up somewhat; his head and shoulders made a denser outline in the darkness where only empty air had been before. Elrond could not restrain his curiosity and took up the candle, silently approaching to inspect this woodland creature and judge the state of his health. Perhaps he was well enough to be sent back to the barracks and Elrond could rest in the bed after all.

The candlelight was captured by a set of shining sapphire eyes filled with both startlement and desire and Elrond's breath caught as his step faltered. The eyes were wide and staring from a face so exquisite the lore-master did not even realise he'd stopped breathing for a second, mesmerised by the fine high cheeks, parted crimson lips, firm jaw, and stubborn chin. An inarticulate sound issued from that sensuous mouth and a red tongue darted out to lick the lush flesh delimiting it, leaving a wet sheen that seemed to invite the healer to taste them.

Elrond swallowed, the idea of banishing this elf from the cot forgotten, and moved closer, raising the candle higher to illuminate the rest of the figure. A delighted grin spread slowly over his face as his gaze travelled with equal leisure, enjoying the revelation of the completely naked and aroused young elf's well-made physique.

He was propped upon his elbow, panting faintly, chest rising and falling so that the eye could not help but be tantalised by the vision of the cinnabar nipples flexing in time with his arm. The limb was busy, moving the fist encircling his erect penis. He was lean and strong, his legs graceful and shapely, his abdomen flat and tight beneath a narrow waist. Even his feet were elegant, Elrond thought, reaching out and bending low to stroke his fingers across the arch and over the toes, which curled up in response.

"Oh, Valar." The elf's voice wavered in low and lustful tones. "Is this a dream?"

"Perhaps. Who can say?" Elrond smiled, closing the distance quickly as his hand ran up the leg, over the hip, and came to the active arm. He took hold at the wrist and halted the rapid stroking, smirking as the youth sucked in a loud gasp and tried to jerk free.

"What are you "

"Be still," he ordered, climbing onto the bed as he drew the hand off the red cock, straddling the angular hips and leaning forward. "No harm will come to you here." He let his hardening penis drag against the smooth, firm belly, let the weight of his balls just brush the slippery tip of the organ beneath him, let a murmured moan announce what an erotic thrill that was. A ripple of excitement coursed through the prone form, fleeing his lips as a strangled oath. In a single motion Elrond set the candle on the bedside table and licked one of the pink nipples, delighting in the cry this evoked, the flavour of the skin, the heat and hardness of the flesh beneath his tongue.

The elf collapsed onto his back, thus freeing a hand which cautiously extended to touch Elrond's hair before retracting, snatched back almost in fright. Elrond rewarded the attempt to participate by sampling the other nipple, smiling as the body beneath him shifted up into the stimulus. Slowly the hand returned and felt along the curve of his rear, following it down to the crease where the leg was adjoined before hastily retreating the way it came to rest in the small of the back.

"What teasing foreplay," Elrond chuckled. He did not let his lips linger long on the ripe titbits; there were too many other delicacies to sample. Kissing his way up the breastbone to the throat, he paused to nudge the convulsive motion of the larynx as the elf swallowed. Then he resumed oral exploration of neck and jaw, nibbling and sucking with the intent to leave a mark that wouldn't fade for hours, only stopping when a decidedly decadent whimper vibrated through the skin beneath his lips. He lifted his head to meet those extraordinary blue eyes and smiled.

"That is a lovely sound," he whispered and gave a voiceless laugh, so close to the enchantingly parted mouth that he could feel the breath coming and going from his captive's lungs. He was also close enough to spy the neatly stitched cut near the temple where a trail of dried blood had not been washed from the damp golden hair. A painful looking lump adorned the opposite side of the cranium. Elrond let go of the wrist he had been holding and carefully palpated the puffy skin around the incision. A harsh hiss and a toss of the head combined with a warning glare from the sylvan made him stop and their eyes met again.

"Man na le?" (Who are you?) asked Legolas with no small amount of exasperation, for he'd expected a kiss and received instead a rather more clinical caress.

The pain dulled his ardour somewhat and left no doubt that this was really happening and not a strange permutation of the impassioned dreams that generally accompanied his reverie. He struggled a bit half-heartedly, thinking he probably ought to get this unknown Noldo elf off him yet not truly wanting to end the encounter. It wasn't every night one awakened to find an attractive, naked elf washing his hair two strides from the bed. In fact, he'd never awakened to discover a naked elf engaged in any activity in his rooms. That he was also naked led Legolas to believe intimacies had already occurred, yet with maddening frustration realised he couldn't remember any details.

_This head wound's doing, no doubt._ Legolas wasn't clear as to how he'd come by the injury, though he had a vague recollection of battle. Who his antagonist had been he could not recall and trying to force the memories meant he would have to deflect attention from this much more pleasing confrontation. The idea that his opponent might have been this very elf sent a jolt through him that surprisingly held neither panic nor rage but instead a bright and jarring combination of anticipation and desire.

"Im nestaron," (I'm a healer) Elrond answered readily. He'd remained thoughtful during those few seconds in which confusion and lust warred within the elf's eyes, pondering if it was ethical to seduce an injured elf, even one suffering so minor a hurt. His hesitation was minimal, however, for the unknown ellon was more than willing, despite these feeble attempts to get free. Their mutual anonymity appealed to Elrond and heightened his excitement; the Lord of Imladris could not lower himself to tumble a common sylvan archer, but a simple healer would not be condemned for a night of sport with such an alluring creature. The decision was made in a heartbeat.

He didn't wait for a response, lunging in to claim the lips so near to his, probing deeply as the warrior's tongue retreated behind a muffled cry. The lean body tensed and stilled as the eyes expanded to impossible diameters and Elrond knew at once this elf had never been kissed, not like this, not with unbridled passion and desire. He reined back his hunger and let the invasion become tender, gently stroking the sylvan's sensitive palate, coaxing the shy oral muscle to come and play. When the rigid frame beneath him relaxed, Elrond ended the kiss, breaking the suction with a distinct little pop, and smiled into the dreamy expression regarding him from that angelic face.

"Did you like that?" he asked quietly, letting his fingers follow the rim of a red-flushed ear up to its pinnacle. His voice was calm and soothing but inside his pulse was racing; the elf he was about to take was a virgin, something he had never experienced with a male. He had shared a warrior's bond with ellyn in times of battle but none of those vigourous veterans had been untouched.

"Aye," the sylvan's breath hitched as the tingling ear tip was oh so delicately flicked. "We do not have healers like this in Greenwood," he added, tentatively raising his hand to imitate what was being done to him. The response was magnificent, for the dark-haired elf groaned in delight and the cock pressed against his midriff twitched.

"Maethor eryndor, sen úgaro agorech," (Woodland warrior, you have not done this.) Elrond said. He pulled the fingers away from his ear and kissed them, watching the play of emotion in the innocent eyes. How well he remembered that mixture of fear, longing, and nervous exhilaration, yet this must be so different. Elrond had not been in the submissive position when he cast off chastity nor had his first experience been with his own gender.

"Nay. I know what to do, though," insisted the sylvan, but his blustering could not hide just how limited was this knowledge.

Elrond smiled. "That is good, but why have you never done this? Surely you are of age else you would not be among the Woodland Princes' guards." At this a look that he could only interpret as panic washed across the indigo irises and Elrond was both intrigued and concerned. A small note of caution sounded in his mind.

"I came of age ten and a half coronars past," answered Legolas, stalling to concoct some answer for he could not admit to this elf who he was.

"Ah, that explains it, then," Elrond smiled, his worries answered. He remembered being sixty. What fervour that age had inspired, the determination to prove himself, to excel as both a warrior and a scholar, to win the approval and acceptance of his elders and his mentors. Yet sylvan custom must be different than Noldorin tradition, for he'd relinquished innocence during the celebration of his Coll-en-Gweth. (Mantle of Manhood) "You must be a fine archer to have earned renown enough to stand so tall in King Thranduil's favour at so young an age."

"What? Oh, yes, I suppose so," stammered Legolas, astounded at his luck. The healer was supplying the reasons all by himself.

"Still, if I am so moved by your extraordinary beauty surely others have been equally smitten. Has no one in your land expressed the desire to court you?"

Legolas hesitated, wavering between appreciation to be given this compliment and aggravation to be judged the quarry in the chase. That he might wish to yield made no difference; the favour should not be assumed.

"Maybe and maybe I am the one doing the courting," he said and tried out what he hoped was a seductive leer, fingers playing with the ebony tresses framing the elf's face. To his dismay, the healer bit his lip to keep from laughing, dark eyes alight with suppressed amusement, and in the end it was too much. The comely face dropped to Legolas' shoulder as a snort escaped. The regal prince was both deeply offended and utterly mortified. "Ai! Get off, then, if I am just a joke to you!"

He shoved against the bare shoulders as he tried to roll from under the ellon's weight and the friction as their cocks rubbed together instantly drove away wrath and gaiety alike. They each loosed a wanton moan, flexing hips to increase the pressure between them, rocking against the warm and vibrant connection.

"Oh! I have never had no idea this " Legolas stuttered, nearly undone by the sensual stimulation.

"I need you to say it," Elrond struggled through the haze of potent craving to make his thoughts clear. "Tell me you want this, want me to be the one." He mastered himself with a complaining grunt and slid off the compliant body to lie beside the archer, sucking in a huge breath as a great shudder worked through him. His eyes drifted shut. _Valar, it has been so long._

Legolas understood and though he tried to think of an answer that sounded mature and sophisticated, the best he could manage was a hoarse "Aye!"

This feeling was too intense and he wanted to experience the rest, to understand what the mystery was all about. At home, he might remain untouched for centuries. Once his identity was known every suitor quickly backed off, fearful of igniting the King's wrath by dallying with his beloved youngest elfling prince. The thought flashed across Legolas' brain that his Adar's fury might be far worse were he to lose his virginity under the present circumstances, but the deliciously tingling fire burning through his body was just too distracting. The warning blazed on by and fizzled out.

He reached out to touch the source of that internal conflagration, caressing heaving pectorals, pausing to circle small hard nipples. His fingers ran over them and he groaned, trying to resist the desire to taste the flesh, but the temptation was too great and he laved one, sucking it in as he plucked at the other. The healer mumbled some encouragement but Legolas failed to decipher the words, lost in the novel event, savouring the sensation of grazing unknown territory, memorising the scent of this total stranger. He licked down the breastbone to the hard stomach, lingering at the naval where he found a silky track to guide him lower. His cheek bumped against the crown of the proud erection before he could do more than appreciate the discovery and of course his attention became focused there. He pressed lips lightly atop the glans and the column of hot and heavy flesh jumped up to meet him. An eager cry sounded from the healer and a hand came to rest on the back of his head, pushing him down.

The smell of musk assaulted his nose and he hesitated but a second. His mouth opened, enveloping the shaft, and almost at once a spasmodic thrust pushed the organ deeper. He almost panicked but the next instant the massive cock pulled back and Legolas had time to breathe before the next shove. He exerted greater suction, ran his tongue over the smooth skin, let his teeth scrape faintly against the pinnacle. It was incredible, from the acrid taste to the exhilaration wrought by the healer's peculiar, snuffling cries as the penis rocked in and out. He raised his eyes to find the penetrating gaze watching him avidly, the stare filled with such vehement longing that Legolas froze.

Abruptly the Noldorin elf grabbed a handful of hair and yanked him up and off, practically dragging him face to face, seized his lips, thrust his tongue in, lapped at the roof of his mouth, and filled him with excitement he did not know how to temper. The next instant fingers tweaked and pulled at his nipples and ears and Legolas would have screamed if he'd had enough air for it. The incessant push of the engorged cock against his made him buck and writhe, seeking more contact as every nerve came alive. He could feel his release building and had neither the will nor the experience to stop it.

A shift of the healer's leg caused the slickened tip of Legolas' cock to dip into the Noldo's navel and that was it. Legolas did scream, though the cry went no further than his partner's lungs. Senses reeling, his soul exulted in the brilliant scintillation of a thousand winking stars. By the time he was coherent again, the kiss was over and the elf was leaning over his stomach, licking up the evidence of his spent passion.

"Ai, that was amazing," he drawled, smiling a lopsided grin as he watched what surely he would have deemed disgusting were he not the recipient of such attention.

"Indeed," intoned Elrond, smiling wickedly as he laid his head upon the wet skin. "Someone needs to clean me off, too."

Legolas' eyes grew huge. "You want me to to eat my own substance?" He completely failed to hide the repugnance this notion produced, and that was followed by embarrassment as the healer laughed merrily. Legolas suddenly didn't feel so euphoric anymore. He sat up, pushing the head out of his lap and moving to rise.

"Nay!" Elrond calmed his mirth and wrapped strong arms around the slender waist, dragging the Wood Elf down on the mattress again. "I was teasing you and I'm sorry. It has been a long time for me and I find I'm nervous. Please forgive me, Maethoren." (My warrior)

"I am not yours," countered Legolas, surprised by the admission of vulnerability and unable to mask the pleasure hearing that endearment gave him.

"Not yet," smiled Elrond, "but before dawn you will be. Unless you no longer find me appealing and want someone else with whom to share this experience." As he spoke, Elrond shifted to lie beside the sylvan warrior, making no effort to shield the youth from the sight or feel of his erection, letting it bump against the archer's hip provocatively, reaching down to stroke it while he watched the response this caused. Those blue eyes were locked on his hand and the Wood Elf rolled to face him and gain a clearer view.

Without even thinking about it, Legolas reached for the hand so skilfully working that distended organ, so engorged it was nearly purple and leaking beads of pearly fluid from its crown. Once he pried the fingers off and had the entirety of it revealed, he gave it an appraising, admiring inspection. The healer's penis had a girth thick as a two year sapling, its length greater than any other he'd seen. He wrapped his fingers around it and gave a few firm strokes, running his thumb through the seeping juices, smiling when this raised a decadent moan. He was tempted to resume the oral adoration, suddenly desiring to make this elf come undone and watch it happen.

A glance back at the handsome face found the compelling grey eyes focused on the motion and then they lifted, searing Legolas' soul with the intensity of the desire within them. Their lips crashed together and Legolas found himself once more beneath the firm hard body, his hand unable to move as the rigid shaft slid back and forth within his grip. A deep, growling, hungry moan rippled down his throat and set off a series of sympathetic vibrations in his own vocal chords; Legolas grew hard again. The kiss and the pivoting friction ended together, but not with the climax he'd hoped to bring about.

Elrond disengaged, rolling to the side and prying the gifted fingers loose. "That feels wonderful, truly, but I don't want to come that way," he explained, propping his head on an elbow and planting a quick kiss on the warrior's cheek, "and if you would shed your virginity tonight, then we must be fully coupled, our bodies joined as one. I must spill inside you." His smile softened as he watched the wide-eyed expression of combined anticipation, disbelief, and unmistakable apprehension. "Worry not; I would do nothing to cause you injury. The body adapts quickly. Imagine the sensation you've just experienced but increase it a thousand fold."

"Does not seem possible, on first consideration," whispered the sylvan warrior, licking his lips nervously as his vision flickered between the piercing grey eyes.

"I promise this will be more pleasure than you can comprehend and any discomfort will be minor and swiftly forgotten." Elrond was surprised; apparently the sylvan had not explored his internal anatomy. Unless warrior training had changed drastically, he should have had ample opportunity to experiment or at least spy on others doing so. The renowned elven Lord was not willing to stop just because of this, no matter that distant note of caution humming beneath his desire, for it was also common for a male interested in bedding his own sex to learn such skills from someone already experienced in that area. That Elrond had never taken virginity from an ellon was irrelevant to the urge to do so. Added to the excitement of being the elf's very first was the titillating enticement of mastering another male so completely.

"What will you do?" Legolas asked. He had not envisioned his first time happening like this, nor dreamed that he would submit to another. He wasn't sure how he felt about being penetrated, but there was an undeniable appeal to being overpowered he hadn't thought possible before this night. The healer's confidence was unrelenting and unless Legolas was willing to leave immediately, he would be this elf's lover before dawn. He was definitely not willing to leave. The idea gave his heart a strong jolt and he shifted closer.

That made Elrond sigh in happy suspense, dipping his head to lap and nip at the shadowed flesh beneath the clavicle, for such a query affirmed the warrior's consent. It was a little while before he found means to answer and when he did his hands expressed his intentions, caressing and smoothing over shoulders and down arms, traipsing across a jutting hip to pet and squeeze the ample mound of the archer's small round rear. While enjoying a deep kiss, he coaxed a long lean limb up to sprawl across his waist, pulling the young elf's groin in close against his cock. A tremulous wail accompanied the delicious sensation as a frisson shook the Wood Elf. Elrond withdrew from the beguiling lips and smiled, pleased to receive an answering grin as the leg bent over his hip flexed to secure their cohesion. The golden warrior nudged under his chin, sampling the skin of his throat, trying out the technique just employed upon his own, and Elrond gave an appreciative whine.

With his partner thus engaged, Elrond began again to explore the flesh beneath his hand, slipping along the widened crease and around the curve, plunging into the divide to softly touch the exposed entrance. So gentle was this first impact that the youth did not react unfavourably and Elrond increased the tactile teasing, circling the sealed opening and pressing light taps upon the sensitive skin. This did engender a harsh gasp and a sudden change from languid relaxation to rigid tension throughout the warrior's body, but Elrond persisted. "You have nothing to fear. The first finger will feel strange but once I find the right spot you'll welcome the intrusion."

"You have done this before?" Legolas gasped out as the finger pushed against him and he instinctively tightened up. He kept his face hidden and grabbed onto the broad shoulders for all he was worth. His heart was racing, both dreading and desiring what must come next.

"Many times," Elrond answered, for that much was true even if it had been quite some time ago.

"Do it then," Legolas said and braced himself, stiff and panting and sweating in the healer's arms.

"Sîdh," whispered Elrond, nuzzling the wet golden mane until he found an ear, to which he imparted a lavish lick. "No need to hurry and I promised not to cause you pain. I will not enter you dry, not even with my fingers. Be still, be calm. There is much within the stores here to ease the way." With that he reached down and tipped up the sylvan's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. It was only with great effort that he refrained from breaking into soft laughter over the grim and resolute countenance he faced. "Do not move, Maethoren," he crooned, planted a peck on the aquiline nose, and eased out from under the slender leg.

No more than a single stride carried him beyond the candle's meagre flame and Elrond turned back to take it up, finding his quarry shifting over onto his back, offering a tempting display of naked flesh, tawny coloured in the wavering half-light, nipples rosy and erect, eyes glittering and dark. Arms crossed behind his head, the archer spread his legs wide and stretched, the slender shaft flexing in the process and emitting an alluring musk. The Elven Lord swooped down and stole a searing kiss, fast and devouring. He withdrew, unable to hide his delight to see the smug triumph overtaking his lover's features. It was best to encourage this sense of sexual power the first time. Abruptly he sobered and sat on the edge of the cot again, reaching out to stroke the straight jaw and press his thumb gently over the archer's full lower lip.

"This is a gift you give me, Maethoren. Be assured, I will treasure it for all my days," he said and saw at once the strong effect this had on the young warrior, for a quick swallow constricted his throat even as argent radiance gathered in his aura. Elrond rose and hastened to seek a suitable salve, returning with the small pot and setting the candle back on the table.

"Shall I turn over?" came the subdued query and Elrond smiled, shaking his head as he coated his fingers and put the jar away. Gently he reached for the archer's hip, tugging to draw the lean figure once more to the side.

"Nay, that would limit my access," he whispered, leaning low to kiss the jutting bone even as he reclined, positioning himself so that his head lay beside the warrior's crotch. He burrowed in and wasted no time, immediately enveloping the velvety head of the warm, aroused shaft with his lips. A startled cry met his ears as an involuntary jerk pushed the organ deeper. Elrond hummed a seductive note of appreciation and used his tongue to caress the seeping glans, generating suction that induced another quick retreat and thrust. In concert with that action, he slipping his slickened fingers back to palpating the anal access, timing the breaching of the taut muscles with another sweep of his tongue over the slit in the archer's cock.

"Ai!" the cry rang out and instinctively Legolas rocked forward deeper into the wet heat, seeking to evade the invading probe, then the next instant pulled back, fearful of choking his lover. The motion eased the digit deeper and he lost all ability to breathe for a few seconds. The sensation was peculiar and he could not call it comfortable, yet neither was there pain associated with it. He simply was not at ease and squirmed against the intrusion, which felt huge though he knew it was not. But for the diversion provided by the healer's mouth, he would have ended the encounter right then. "'Tis not pleasurable," he ground out as he was poked and prodded. He regretted the complaint at once as his penis was released.

"Patience, maethor neth," chided Elrond, glancing up to see how serious the discomfort truly was. He was gratified to note no signs of real pain and smiled. "You will soon form a new opinion of the experience," he promised and carefully withdrew the finger slightly before plunging it in until there was no more left to insert. Another harsh exhale greeted that effort and Elrond returned his oral attention to the somewhat deflated erection and the sensitive glands gathered at its base. Carefully he drew one of the hidden testicles inside his mouth and simultaneously curled the finger, drawing it out. As he had hoped would happen, this manoeuvre stroked the small mound where the prostate lay. The reaction was all he might have wished, for the youth gave a loud shout and a mighty tremor rocked his body, followed by a purely instinctive reverse thrust to repeat the feeling.

"Valar!" Legolas crooned. "Again!"

Quickly Elrond changed position, coming up to his knees, fisting the renewed erection and pumping as he pressed the internal pulse-point repeatedly. He knew the warrior would not be able to delay his orgasm under this seductive onslaught and added a second finger on the next withdrawal. The sylvan moaned as he was stretched, shuddering and shifting, and Elrond inserted a third finger, opening them like a tri-lobed flower as he shoved in as far as he could manage.

"Valar nin beria!" Legolas choked out, desperately trying to gather his strength, unable to decide whether to flip onto his stomach or drawn his knees beneath him and rise to all fours. He was so close now that he all but forgot the ultimate purpose of this invasive manipulation, until abruptly all the fullness left him and the exquisite pressure surrounding his erection lifted. He could not prevent the cry of frustration that fled his lungs, nor the embarrassing words of entreaty he uttered next. "Saes! Pathro nin, Nestaron, saes, pathro nin." (Please! Fill me, Healer, please, fill me.)

Elrond did not even take time to respond, at least not with words, as he rapidly smeared the greasy ointment over his aching cock, grabbed the warrior at the hips, rolled him to his stomach, and thrust fully into the delectable confinement. A long, low moan of hunger escaped him and he registered the loud smack of his thighs upon the warrior's firm rump with a blaze of triumphant delight. There was no conscious effort to direct his motion beyond that and the elven Lord thrust in and out with the full force he could produce, relishing the gyrating struggles of the supple body beneath him. The Wood Elf arched his back and bucked, hands gripping the sheets, head bowed and shoulders tense, an occasional cry getting past his lips amid his efforts to draw sufficient air.

Legolas was quite beyond reason, passion depriving him of all ability to think as ripple after ripple of exquisite pleasure streaked through his nerves, his mind afire in a scorching array of colour and light that was as tangible the cock stroking him so thoroughly. He knew only that he never wanted it to end, even as he drove harder into each concussive jolt. A hand reached beneath his belly and gripped his penis and the touch was like a song incarnate, propelling him rapidly into orgasm. A long warbling cry of exultation left him as his semen spattered the sheets, the tart and musty scent filling the curtained space. Every muscle in his body contracting in spasms of such unbearable pleasure that he thought he might weep. The next sensation startled him, for the healer gave a nearly violent shove and a deep, guttural growl as hot seed streamed from the swollen cock sheathed to the hilt in Legolas' bowels.

It was a shock and he turned to peer behind him, staring wide-eyed at the dreamy, euphoric expression shaping the features of the powerful male who had without doubt claimed him utterly. Legolas shuddered, submissively spreading his legs wider on the mattress, already wanting more, relishing the last lingering tremors of their potent coupling as the healer continued to rock slowly into him. Suddenly the compelling grey eyes, sealed during their mutual ecstasy, opened and locked with his. Legolas caught his breath. Never had he looked upon such warmth and genuine delight, a mixture of surprise and gratitude and, most strange and wondrous of all, recognition. All this set a chord to thrumming somewhere in the depths of his soul. Legolas broke into a beaming smile.

Elrond stilled, lost in the absolute surrender of the woodland warrior. He found it impossible to tear his gaze from the sapphire eyes, overwhelmed by the depth of the connection between them. He realised he was grinning like a fool and didn't care. Carefully he withdrew, gathering his sylvan lover close, kissing the bare shoulder as he settled on the bed. The elf turned in his arms, and coyly leaned up for a kiss, still sporting that radiant smile, before settling contentedly atop his chest, chin resting on folded arms. Elrond couldn't help himself and dipped his hands into the golden mane, fondled an ear, caressed the elegant cheek, laughing lightly when the archer turned and kissed his palm.

"We'll being doing that again, yes?" Legolas asked, slithering forward to steal another taste of the healer's lips, noticing the distinct flavour of his own body there.

"Oh yes," assured Elrond. "As often as you like."

"What is your name, Nestaron?"

It was at this point that things became rather complicated.

TBC

© 26/07/2008 Ellen Robey

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Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.  
Elvish names and such:

Guanunig (One of a pair of twins)  
Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filigod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - Elrond Finds Out the Truth

Elrond sighed as he rose from the humble cot, unable to suppress the need to caress the Wood Elf one more time, checking what remained of the gash though it was all but healed, fingering the tangled hair, soothing his fingers all the way down the svelte body from nipples to knees, chuckling as his new lover stretched and wriggled like a cat under the touch. He wouldn't have been overly surprised to hear him begin to purr.

"Maethoren," he said quietly, well satisfied that it was indeed so and only a little concerned over the depths to which this concept resonated within his heart. It had been a long time for him and he was the young archer's first. Such conditions were uncommon and the resulting emotional reaction was bound to be highly intense for them both. It wasn't, he reminded himself, as though he were in love with this woodland sprite, nor was this aboriginal specimen of the First-born smitten with him. They were lovers, nothing more. A sudden and sharp compression round his chest made him inhale a ragged breath and he felt unaccountably bereft.

"What is wrong?" asked Legolas, alarmed to see this expression of acute sorrow overtake the previous display of contented happiness. He half sat up and reached out, but the healer quickly pressed him down, following to kiss him passionately, almost violently, as though he might never do so again. Legolas snatched at the long inky locks and answered the embrace with equal fervour, disturbed and beginning to be upset himself, his previous reservations and internal warnings vibrating through his entire being.

After their union, he had wanted to dispense with all the mystery at once, finding he did not like deceiving his new lover, yet the healer had rebuffed his attempts to share the most basic information. Indeed, Legolas had told him his real name, but stopped short of revealing his father's. The healer showed no suspicion that Legolas of Greenwood might be more than an ordinary woodland archer and had sealed his young love's lips by claiming them every time Legolas tried to continue his revelations. Meanwhile, the healer insisted he be called only by his title. This had bothered Legolas and still did, but during the night he had been easily diverted from his worries by the skilful attention of the ellon's hands and mouth and, most especially, that exquisite rod of rigid flesh and blood that so sweetly skewered him. Now he wondered anew why the healer would want to draw out the game and whether this was at the root of his obvious unhappiness. What was this despair and terror building in his heart? "Nestaron!"

"Be at peace, Legolas; all is well," Elrond said, trying to sound assured, voice quavering. He sat back on his haunches by the bed and smiled gently, pressed a kiss to the frowning brow and gathered his warrior close to his heart for a less demanding clasp of arms, chin resting on the golden crown of hair. "Forgive me; I did not mean to be so dramatic. I was momentarily overwhelmed by what we have shared together and and Oh, I am just an old soul overcome by his good fortune to have fate gift him with so glorious a lover," he concluded, hoping that would do, and immediately lean arms fastened him in a crushing hug as the wild warrior actually did make a low, murmuring mew, burrowing against his neck. Elrond felt the pressure of lips there and then a bold nip that made him jump. "Ai! We agreed not to mark one another!"

Legolas chuckled, a soft, rumbling sound evocative of indulgent possession, and released him, smugly smiling as the healer stood and hurried to take up a reflecting glass and examine his neck. "We disobeyed that rule rather early on, I think," he said, fingers brushing a hot, tender, raspberry-coloured patch on his clavicle.

"Aye, you're right," Elrond gave a rueful grin and shrugged. "Well, I will display it proudly, be assured of that." Yet as he washed up he dabbed a little ointment there to speed the healing and as he dressed, pulled his tunic collar high to partially shield the love-bite from sight. Behind him the young archer laughed gayly and a pillow sailing through the air caught Elrond full in the face as he turned. This raised a loud whoop of mirth from the bed and he could not help but laugh, too, seeing the Wood Elf so pleased with the proof of his conquest. "All right, serves me right, I guess. Stay and rest as long as you wish for none will disturb you. I will order fresh water so you may bathe, and I'll send word to have your captain bring clean garments for you." He gave a half bow and moved to go, hand on the curtained partition, when a frantic plea stopped him.

"Wait! When will we be together again? Will you dine with me at noon?" Legolas did not really want him to go and felt the urge to leap from the bed and hold him fast, disrobe him and push him back on the cot, have his way with him. He restrained himself, not wanting to appear so eager and demanding. Somehow, he felt such blatant hunger and forceful behaviour would be judged unseemly by this refined and aristocratic healer, so comfortably accustomed to command.

"Ah, I regret that will not be possible today, Maethoren. I have a most complicated and serious surgical procedure this morning and will not be able to leave the patient until she has regained consciousness and stabilised. She is a very young human and her leg must be amputated at the knee. Mortal constitutions are not as durable as ours; this will be a brutal shock to her body and mind."

"Ai! How terribly sad! Of course, you must do all you can to make her well again." Legolas said, truly dismayed to hear of this child's distress, but unable to stifle his disappointment entirely. He waited to see if the healer would make a counter invitation, eyes bright and expectant.

Elrond got lost in them, envisioning what he would like to do to the ellon to change that expression into one of ecstatic abandon. His mind ran through the brief catalogue of sex toys he still owned and immediately resolved to purchase new ones to initiate this inexperienced youth into more advanced erotic games. He shivered and cleared his throat, blinking as Legolas shifted slightly and pulled him out of a fantasy set in a hot spring and furnished with silken restraints and anal beads. "Yes, it is unfortunate, but she will recover when many others have perished. She was a victim of the dragon," he fell back on the child's condition to help get him through the next few seconds.

"Twas a were-worm," said Legolas solemnly. "Never have I imagined such a creature could exist."

"You saw it? When was this?"

"On the way here. We killed it," Legolas answered modestly though it was his arrow that had felled the creature.

"Then all the lands from the Angle to Rhudaur are in the debt of the Woodland Realm." Elrond was no little bit amazed. "I that is, our Lord will order a great feast of celebration to honour you and your comrades." Legolas smiled benignly at this but said nothing and suddenly Elrond realised he was waiting for something more, hope and hunger burning in the bright eyes. His heart leaped; his fantasy could become reality in a matter of hours! "Would you like to meet tomorrow at dawn for the morning meal? Can you get away from your duties for the day? There are many places in the valley I would love to show you."

"I will be ready," Legolas felt his face aching from the stretch his grin was giving the muscles there. "Should I await you here in the House of Healing?"

"That will be perfect," Elrond beamed back at the radiant elf and finally pulled aside the curtain and stepped out, tripping and nearly falling on his face as his feet encountered the rolled bundle of bedding he had requested last night.

_Uh-oh._

He had forgot about that entirely. The page who brought it must have got an earful! Yet, he found he was really quite pleased, imagining word spreading throughout the Last Homely House about his late night conquest. This was exactly what he needed to squelch all the strange sensations surging through his fëa: a little boasting as he was wont to do long ago before his marriage. Somehow, he would have to let it slip that his new lover had been a virgin; a few words to Erestor in passing should do. He gathered himself and lifted his head high, strode out boldly, smiling as every face turned to peer at him, patients and attending healers alike. His cheeks grew warm; this was more of an audience than he had ever imagined, but the expressions universally confirmed that one and all had borne auditory witness to the Wood Elf's deflowering.

Barahin approached him and gave her usual professional half-bow in greeting, but her eyes were twinkling with mischief. "Maur aur, Hiren," she said politely but spritely. "Did you pass the night agreeably?"

He gazed at her, left brow arched and lips compressed, but found he just could not rebuke her. His smile broke free and he laughed. "I did indeed, Barahin; I did indeed! Now then, how is my young patient this morning?"

"Alas, her condition deteriorates," the healer confided. "The fever mounts and we dare not delay much longer. I am beginning the preparations now to sink her in oblivion for the procedure. She should be properly sedated by the time you finish your morning tea with Hîr Erestor and the Emissary from Mirkwood."

"I have already spent considerable time with the most appealing emissary that blighted place can produce," he chuckled and she tittered along with him. "I think I'll evade the others." Then he grew serious. "Very well, continue the immersion into unconsciousness, but gradually, gradually. If she is weakening, we may lose her if we send her too deep. I will hasten and take nourishment with my kinsman and return within an hour." He acknowledged her affirmation of his orders and strode quickly along the long open room of the infirmary, noting in passing the improving condition of those who had slept in the repose of Lorien's Garden under Estë's gentle care, pausing only when he got to the child's bed. There another healer was softly singing the spell of sleeping, exhorting the Powers to come and aid in the cure. Laer was not aware and Elrond made only a cursory examination, knowing he could trust to Barahin's prognosis.

The girl's mother sat quietly beside the bed holding her child's hand and did not speak, afraid to ask anything for fear of what she would be forced to hear. Elrond laid his hand upon her bowed head and murmured a calming incantation, his eyes silently informing the attending healer to include her in the spell. A slight nod confirmed his desire was understood and Elrond left then, once more thanking the Valar for the good people who worked with him so closely here. They were warriors of a different sort, he mused, but they behaved with professionalism, precision, and dedication much like the best trained and most disciplined warriors he had ever commanded in Eregion.

Out in the grounds now, he passed a gardener and received an especially cheery and subtly cheeky morning greeting commenting on how early he had got up and about today. Elrond slowed down and moved with the regal grace he adopted when he was showing off and intended everyone to take note of his passing. 'Strutting', Erestor called it, and he let a pleased and secretive smile collect upon his features. Those observing him were wont to think he looked much like a cat who had just consumed a very fine bowl of sweet cream. Elrond reached the private area of the estate and entered his personal morning room by way of the gardens beside is, navigating the maze where a hidden gate easily and silently swung open at a mere touch of his hand. Erestor was already there sipping his tea, not looking at all pleased, and this conversely made Elrond feel very superior. _So he has heard the news already._His kinsman did not have a lover at the present time.

"Maur aur, muindoren," he said as he sat and poured himself tea.

"No, it is not a good morning, Elrond." Erestor banged his cup into its saucer vehemently. "What were you thinking? That Wood Elf was sent to the infirmary because of a wound inflicted during a fantastic brawl last night. A brawl with our warriors, in the kitchens, no less. He is either a friend or kinsman, probably both, to one, or probably both, of Thranduil's Princes. Was it really necessary to bed him? This is not going to be favourably received."

"Why not? The injury was minor. He was not unconscious, Erestor, and gave consent with eagerness. Anyway, there is no cause for any of the Wood Elves to complain about it. He was a delight and I am sure I pleased him, too, though that would not be difficult since he has no one with which to compare me." _There, that should just about do it._He offered his councillor a bland smile.

"What?" Erestor stared and realised his mouth had dropped open. He shut it. "Oh wonderful, just perfect. Word has already spread, Elrond; you were not exactly discreet. Gondaran was delighted to share his news after carrying the blankets to the infirmary office. The mood in the barracks is highly charged. Have you any idea what the fighting was about?"

"Of course not, since I was not there. What is the matter?" This was not the reaction he had anticipated and Elrond felt cheated. He gulped his tea and glared. "I think you are jealous, mellon."

"Jealous? Ai Valar, Elrond! I am not so desperate that I must resort to seducing incapacitated Wood Elves to relieve my loneliness. What you do not know is that our warriors made some rather crude and vulgar comments about our sylvan guests and there particular tastes in carnal pleasures, as well as the insubstantial nature of the equipment required for sexual exploits, likening them to children in form and function."

"Really?" Elrond responded without hearing anything past the remark about seduction, now completely mortified. Is that how he appeared to his people? Did they believe he had to get his lovers by such underhanded methods? Were those friendly grins and winks and cheeky greetings all meant to mock him? Were they laughing behind his back? "He was not incapacitated, Erestor," he shot back, angry now as well. The focus was not supposed to be on him, not like this. _Desperation!_ Erestor was supposed to be fittingly impressed and envious, not disparaging and scornful. "He performed quite remarkably for someone who has never engaged in intercourse before. Never. Not with anyone, male or female." _There! Let him ruminate on that!_At last Erestor's eyes widened in interest and he revealed a hint of a grin, trying to suppress it and failing.

"So he was good?"

"Ai Elbereth! Better than good, cousin!" Elrond replied enthusiastically, eager to forget and forgive his seneschal's harangue . This was more like it. "He gave himself up absolutely, totally submissive. Anything I wanted to do to him, I did it. Several times." Elrond puffed up proudly and took a bite of his omelette, barely tasting it for the zest of his victory was too rich to savour anything else.

"Oh? Oral, too?"

"Oral, anal, from behind, on top, bent over the desk, balanced on his hands, up against the wall "

"Ai! Enough!" Erestor held up his hand, laughing and shaking his head. "Stop or I will have to make a journey to that sickroom myself, for I have seen your young lover naked already. A rare type for a Wood Elf, isn't he?"

"Indeed, he has a refinement of face and features that almost looks patrician, as those folk down in Mithlond look, those refugees from Gondolin who are a mixture of Noldorin and Sindarin. There is High Sindarin in his bloodlines somewhere, maybe even Vanyarin. But he is mine exclusively, kinsman. Spread the word: none are to pursue him."

"What if he does not want to be yours exclusively?" demanded Erestor, disappointed. It could as easily have been him despoiling that virginal sylvan had he not remained behind to sort out Mirkwood's Princes and settle them in the officer's barrack. Filigod had then kept him occupied for several hours trying to divulge something he obviously found quite serious yet could not manage to get out. Hints were dropped that Princes Legolas and Celon'lir were not what they appeared. Or perhaps he had said who they appeared. It made no sense and he had finally put an end to it and bade the august and morose emissary good evening.

"He does. We have already arranged to meet tomorrow and spend the day together, so whatever activities you have scheduled for our guests you must exempt Legolas from it all. He is to be my personal and exclusive catamite for the duration of his stay." For all he did not really care about the flavour of the food, Elrond found he was hungry and wolfed it down, enjoying his kinsman's nonplussed expression immensely. He ate in silence while Erestor digested the new directive.

"Wait." Erestor felt a horrendous migraine coming on. He must not have heard correctly. _Or perhaps there are two of them._ Yet it was an uncommon name, a revered name that harked back to ancient days and a noble warrior. Not a name a common Wood Elf would be likely to choose for his son. _But I have met Legolas and he is in the mess hall this very moment._"Did you just call him Legolas?"

"Aye, that's his name. What else should I call him?" Elrond snickered with conspiratorial glee, failing to note the dawning apprehension on his seneschal's countenance. "Although, he doe not yet know he has been divested of his innocence by the Lord of Imladris. I insisted he know me only by my title of Nestaron." The mighty elven Lord chortled as he swallowed his tea, watching Erestor's face grow pale. "Aye, it is all very mysterious and exciting this way. I didn't want to scare him off, you see. Who could blame me with such an opportunity? I was his first, broke him in and made him beg for more. Ai, Erestor, I have never known anything like it! He is so tight and hot and wanton!"

"Eru's Arse! Elrond!" Erestor could not find the words he needed to explain what he now realised with all too absolute a sense of doom. Filigod's cryptic words supplied the only plausible answer: the elf in the infirmary was Prince Legolas. Who the elf in the barracks might be Erestor did not care to know at this moment. _They traded places._ It was a trick the Twins had played so regularly over the centuries he might have suspected it at once, save for the brawl. Being knocked about and roughed up had obscured the real reason for Celon'lir's _or rather the ellon pretending to be Celon'lir_inept diplomacy. Erestor groaned and shut his eyes tight. Visions of hordes of Wood Elves invading the valley filled his thoughts, a tide of archers sweeping in preceded by an inescapable rain of arrows, rallying under the banner of King Thranduil, who would lead the charge and take his own exquisite pleasure in gutting Elrond personally.

"What is wrong with you, Erestor?" Elrond demanded, beginning to be concerned. He reached out and grabbed the seneschal's shoulder and shook him.

"This is dreadful," Erestor got up and paced the terrace. "I don't know how we can possibly avert disaster, war even." He stopped and pinned his clueless kinsman with a withering glare. "And you don't even know what you've done! Did you actually read that document from King Thranduil?"

"Of course I read it!" barked Elrond, rising and drawing himself tall. He was the Lord around here, after all, and if he wanted to fuck a Wood Elf, he would fuck a Wood Elf, especially a virgin Wood Elf. "What are you implying? What disaster? What is this nonsense about war? He is of age and was not unconscious when I took him."

"What a relief," droned Erestor. "Perhaps those facts will spare your life. You don't recall the names of Thranduil's sons, do you?" he queried in acid tones.

A lengthy silence filled the space between them, Elrond gaping in dumb denial, Erestor waiting for the truth to force its way to the surface. Elrond swallowed with difficulty and reached a shaking hand for his cup, finished off the tea, set the cup down with extreme care.

"Thranduil's sons?" A dark heaviness gathered in his stomach then, for he began to understand. That mental warning that had nagged at him last night came back and began screaming, and it was screaming a name he had found vaguely familiar. He returned to his seat, carefully lowering his bottom onto the cushion and gripping the arms for support. His head was spinning a bit and he thought he might be about to lose his breakfast. "Is one of them, by any chance of ill fate, named Legolas?"

Arms folded over his breast in disgust, face contorted in a scowl of absolute disapprobation, Erestor nodded silently.

Elrond was having trouble getting his mind around the situation, struggling as he was not to vomit, but eventually he managed to get to the core of the issue. "That remark you made in passing, the one about 'seducing incapacitated Wood Elves'? Is that what the sylvans believe?"

Erestor's pose did not alter a mite. "Yes, Elrond. They believe you, the Lord of Imladris, raped an injured, unconscious, defenceless, virginal sylvan archer. Their Prince, in fact."

TBC

© 26/07/2008 Ellen Robey

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Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.

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Elvish names and such:

Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filigod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)  
muindoren (my brother - often used between close kindred like cousins)  
Gondaran (Stonelord - an Imladrian page)


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Legolas Finds Out the Truth

Legolas stretched luxuriantly, back arched, toes curled, palms pressed against the wall behind him, and then settled supine on the tiny cot, utterly contented, hands clasped behind his head, long lean legs splayed out on the mattress, eyes half closed, a dreamy smile on his comely face. What he had experienced was nothing short of amazing, not at all like he'd fantasised so often. Nor, basic physiology aside, was it anything like the lurid accounts he'd listened to friends and acquaintances relate or tales he'd read in forbidden erotic scrolls, and had absolutely nothing in common with the dry, clinical accounts about reproduction contained in the infirmary library. No, there was no description in spoken or written word that adequately described what had just happened to him. Song, he mused, might come near the truth, might almost touch upon the heights to which his spirit had been transported. Ancient ballads he had heard a thousand times suddenly contained new meaning, took on depth, lifted clear of what he had previously deemed excessive sentimentality and bathos.

_Valar! How ignorant I was._

What he had experienced had completely changed his perspective, his very life. How strange! Although, he had often bemoaned the changes that overtook his friends once this threshold between youth and maturity was crossed. Before, he had considered the idea of a lover as almost an inconvenience, someone who would interfere in a warrior's calling, someone who would make demands upon him and cause him to forgo activities he might enjoy just to appease this lover's ego. He had seen it so many times and often teased his friends about their eager acquiescence to any and all demands their fair, female lovers made.

He did not personally know any male couples, though there were several among the elves in the city, so he could not judge what their interactions might be, but he had assumed it would be similar. That had bothered him before, to be so different among his peers, but it no longer seemed important now. He did know a female warrior under his brother's command who was mated to a female healer, and they seemed to behave just as the ordinary couples he knew: swinging through a spectrum of behaviour from billing and cooing ultra-sweetness to storms of fury and tears followed by wild and exuberantly passionate love-making.

_Will it be the same for me?_

He didn't think it possibly could be; his relationship with the healer was obviously different. For one thing, he could not believe any other couple were as well suited to one another. It was as though each was designed specifically to fulfil the needs and desires of the other. Their physical union would always be wildly passionate and exuberant. He and Nestaron had shared a fusion of flesh and spirit that transcended mere sex. This, he decided, was the real source of happiness and joy, this incredible experience of sharing body and soul with another being.

He sighed in splendorous wonder, reliving the pivotal moment when he'd first felt the healer's explosive release of seed, still stunned and thrilled and captivated, moved beyond the province of words or even of song by that expression of awe and astonishment on the Noldorin ellon's face, the sudden darkening of the grey irises to velvety midnight blue, the golden fire with which his aura came alight. A huge grin broke out on Legolas' features; he could almost believe it had been Nestaron's first time, too, so dazed and bedazzled had he been. He chuckled, proud to be the one who'd awakened a long dormant passion in the elder elf. A single taste had not been sufficient for either appetite; they'd groped, petted, squeezed, teased, kissed, licked, sucked, bit, and coupled in every conceivable orientation, including several he had never imagined, even when there was nothing left to give.

_We shared something extraordinary, something unique between us._

It must be so; Legolas knew he would never forget the previous night and was certain the healer felt the same way. He could hardly wait to see him again and didn't have any idea how to get through the intervening hours. He must, of course, for Nestaron could not be disturbed during the healing of the sickly little child. He wondered if Nestaron would think it foolish of him to offer the Blessing of Tawar for a speedy recovery; Imladrians did not believe in Tawar. Would Nestaron find his creed risible, too? Legolas frowned; he didn't like calling his lover by a generic title anyone in Arda trained in the curing arts might use. His lover was so much more. A soft cough interrupted his musing and he glanced to the curtained partition to find a face peering at him round the barrier. "Minno," he said and sat up as the ellon entered, as unconcerned about his nudity as ever, the brawl forgotten.

"Here's the water Hiren ordered," the servant said curtly, dragging two large jugs inside and shoving the empty ones under the curtain, eyes studiously averted for the Wood Elf was stark naked. He'd heard about the foreigners' disgraceful display of exhibitionism and now he had to endure it himself. His nose wrinkled up in disgust; the small room reeked of sex.

"My thanks." Legolas did not like his tone at all. A pleasant 'maur aur' wouldn't have hurt. He bent an imperious scowl upon the underling which went completely ignored since the ellon would not look at him. He went about emptying the basin into a small drain Legolas had not noticed, being otherwise occupied through the night, and saw it was covered by a metal plate on the floor. That was interesting; they used a similar plumbing system in Ost-en-Thranduil, and he got up to observe, deciding to give the grumpy ellon a second chance to be cordial. "We reclaim wash water in Greenwood, too. Does this empty into a filtering conduit and then into a cistern below ground?"

"How should I know? I just empty the basins and haul the water," snapped the servant, daring a peak at the nude warrior bending so close beside him. The reek, he discovered, was heavily concentrated on this person. His features contracted in disgust that he made no effort to disguise; he did not approve of same-sex coupling even if it was Lord Elrond who did it. Well, he would have his own bit of news to share once this chore was done. The whoring slut stank like the breeding barn in spring.

"Is there really call to be so rude?" demanded Legolas, standing straight and folding his arms across his bare chest. "What is your name? I've a mind to complain to your master about your peevish tone."

"Oh, you think it's like that, do you?" laughed the water-bearer. "What makes you imagine our Lord will care anything more about you now he's had what he wanted?" He smirked at the open mouthed expression of shock this engendered on the uppity Wood Elf's face and left with a loud snort of disdainful disapproval.

"What?" Legolas finally found his voice, but the servant was already gone.

What in Bloody Mordor was the fool talking about? He felt a knot tightening in his stomach and a definite flutter of panicky dread near his heart. Why would the servant make such a remark? Did he know about the healer and their night of blissful union? Legolas' eyes moved to the curtain, comprehending for the first time how flimsy a barrier that was; anyone on the other side of it would have heard every sound he'd made. His face flushed crimson and he found he hadn't the courage to go peek at what lay on the other side. He could guess anyway; this was the infirmary office, out there was the infirmary itself. As for calling his lover Hiren, that made sense, too, for of course a water-bearer, among the lowest of the serving classes, would address almost everyone this way. Nestaron was probably the chief physician here in Imladris. Still, there was no need to attach that crude and scornful insult. Nestaron did indeed care, as the churlish wretch would soon learn. Legolas firmly shoved the unpleasant encounter from his thoughts.

He decided to begin his bath, confident Faron would be along anytime with his clothes, and stepped into the basin, considering that their plans must be radically altered now. He did not want to create disorder or cause a fracas in his lover's homeland, no matter Hiren Adar's wishes. A sudden stab of foreboding clouded his mental horizon as he considered how to go about breaking the news to his father. Perhaps, he speculated, it would not be necessary to reveal his initiation into adulthood. He never could keep anything form his Ada, though; he had an uncanny knack of knowing the minute anything significant happened to Legolas. The King's younger son could not pretend he didn't adore his Adar for that fact and the notion had him smiling now.

_Ada loves me; my happiness will prevail over any misgivings he may have over my choice for a first lover._

That certainty uncoiled the weighty gnarl in his gut and he breathed easier. The water was warm and he hummed happily as he scrubbed, squatting down to gingerly clean places that had never been so sore and sticky before. Rinsing scrupulously, he raised his eyes to the array of jars and containers lining the shelves on the walls and spotted the ointment Nestaron had used. This he applied liberally inside and out, thinking it was rather a good thing the deed had been done in the infirmary after all. He sighed, much soothed, and got out of the tub to wash his hair, kneeling beside the basin just as Nestaron had done. The sudsy soap had a sweet fragrance reminiscent of honeysuckle and he inhaled; it was this very scent that had awakened him in the night, there to find the glorious healer wet and naked and near enough to touch.

_Well, I touched him all right!_

That made him snicker as he rinsed out the shampoo, recalling the delightful texture and weight of the healer's shiny onyx locks. Oh, that hair had been the first feature he'd noted, after absorbing the impact of the broad-shouldered swordsman's physique and the narrow, bare bottom propped atop clean, pink heels. From this memory he proceeded to the next: watching the healer approach with the candle, seeing the delight and desire transform his features as he beheld Legolas for the first time. No one had ever looked at him that way before, like he was a vision or a dream too magnificent to believe. Which is what he'd thought himself, that it was a dream. Never had reality been so spectacular as the night's activities proved.

That lackey was obviously a bigoted idiot; how could he know what his Lord felt about the midnight encounter? Wringing water from his tresses, Legolas straightened up, considering that he should really thank the odious underling, for he had given away a clue to his lover's identity. Legolas had known before that he was a healer and now he knew he was a Lord, which explained the ellon's noble and refined bearing. So, all he had to do was bring up his lessons on foreign diplomacy and run through the list of Noldorin Lords in Imladris who were also healers and

"AI!" Legolas shrieked. "Nay, it cannot be." He shook his head, but it was no use. There could be no other solution to the riddle: his lover was Lord Elrond, the son of Eärendil, the Herald of Gil-galad, the hero of the Last Alliance, the Keeper of Vilya, occasionally referred to as 'Peredhel fuiad' (Half-elven Scum) back home in Greenwood, and old enough to be his father's great grandfather. Legolas sat hard on the cot and buried his face in his hands with a groan. "What have I done?"

"What've you done? Tawar Mín Beria! It's all over the valley, muindor, what that _Peredhel Fuiad_has done." It was Faron, arriving at this precise moment to comfort his kinsman, but he halted, eyes bulging as he surveyed the room, sniffing the pungent odours so distinctive to pleasures of the flesh. "Ai! I didn't really believe it until now."

"Faron!" Legolas raised woebegone eyes to his cousin, glad to have him near. "I I didn't know, you see. Though, it wouldn't have mattered had I known. Or mayhap it would have, I don't know," he babbled frantically. "But it is too late to change things now; we are lovers, Lord Elrond and I." He swallowed hard and discovered he could not say anything more, this statement having succinctly covered everything.

"Lovers?" Faron's brow contracted incredulously. "Is that what he told you? Aramë's Arse! It is called rape, Legolas." He sat beside his cousin and wrapped a consoling arm around his shoulder, searching for signs of fading, not that he knew what to look for because he'd never seen a living elf who'd been raped, nor any that had been raped by another elf. Those raped by orcs perished quickly, usually by decapitation or suicide if the orc was especially cruel and left them alive afterward.

"Rape? What nonsense are you talking? You sound like Mallavorn." Legolas pushed his cousin's arm off him and grabbed the bundle of clothes from his lap, stood and began dressing. "I was willing enough. In fact, he wouldn't proceed until I stated my desires bluntly. Where and how did this lie begin?" He shook out the leather leggings, now dry and clean, and pulled them on, peering at his friend in disgruntled confusion.

"It is a lie? But you were unconscious when you were brought here. I am sorry, by the way, for dropping my defences and exposing you," Faron apologised. "Anyway, I only know the word started circulating last night among the barracks that their Lord had bedded you; the Noldor were having great fun at your expense. Some servant told them; neither you nor the mighty Lord Elrond made any effort to be quiet about it." He watched Legolas dressing and was much relieved to see he seemed just as arrogant and regally insufferable as ever.

"I was not unconscious when it happened, I assure you, and it was not your fault I was injured. The Noldor are sneaky and dishonourable; no sylvan would have struck after a truce was called, and indeed, none did. Anyway, it was just a minor concussion and I am fully healed." He blushed, realising how that sounded, but then smiled for it was true. He made an effort to be serious. "Are we banished from Imladris? Has anyone been imprisoned for kin-slaying?"

"Neither, not yet. Filigod and Lord Erestor prevailed against the general desire for revenge, though we would have done our best not to actually kill the culprit. We were all set to castrate the great and noble healer, without benefit of sedation using a rusty old dagger, and thus prevent any future rapes from occurring." Faron grinned as Legolas' gaze went wide and fearful.

"Ai! You wouldn't! You mustn't, muindor!"

"Nay, we won't," Faron laughed, then grew solemn. "I am relieved beyond words that this was all a misunderstanding. If anything like that ever happened to you " He stood and abruptly seized his cousin in a tight embrace. "Muindor."

"All is well, muindoren," Legolas felt his spirit fill with warm goodwill and returned the clasp heartily, then released his cousin with a soft push that dumped him back on the bed.

They fell quiet, Faron watching as Legolas pulled on a shirt and left the ties half open, fussing with the gaping fabric so that the vivid red passion mark was clearly on display. A speculative expression overtook his features and, seeing it, his cousin paused, returning an inquiring stare. Faron's smile grew. "So, not a virgin anymore?" He was rewarded with a dazzlingly impish grin and blue eyes shining with a lustre that was almost ethereal.

"I should say not," Legolas laughed, cheeks reddening a little more.

"And?"

"Valar! Why didn't you tell me it could be like this, alhand?" (idiot)

"He treated you well, then? I am glad for that much." Perhaps everything would be all right after all.

"That word," Legolas informed smugly, "is so insufficient to describe last night that I refuse to use it. He treated me like a god. I have never been so thoroughly worshipped in all my days. I didn't know it was possible to feel such such a sense of belonging, of possessing and being possessed, of ecstasy and contentment. I understand what is important in life now and why everyone puts up with all the troubles a lover brings. I feel almost that I was broken before, or incomplete, and now I am made whole. Faron, why didn't you ever tell me any of this? And I pleased him, too, very well, indeed." Legolas met a stare of mixed alarm and envy on his kinsman's face and sat beside him again. "Faron? What ails you?"

"What ails me? Legolas, you talk as though you are in love with this Noldorin Lord and ask me if _I_am ill?" Faron handed him a comb and produced a second from his pocket, set about grooming the wild golden mane. It was a moment or two before Legolas began doing the same and Faron knew he was thinking this through, gave him time to examine his reaction to the admittedly life-altering event, confident Legolas would realise he was perhaps exaggerating his emotional response. The silence went on through the entire braiding and binding process and then Legolas handed over the comb with a soft sigh, his expression worried while his eyes remained darkly dreamy.

"I think I am, Faron, and I believe he loves me, too," he said, head filled with tragically romantic scenes. "It's a lot more complicated than I thought love would be. What am I going to do?"

"Legolas!" Faron was shocked beyond any ability to produce a rational reply. "You can't be! He certainly isn't."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded the prince, jumping up and glaring down, fists clenched. It was one thing to hear such from an insubordinate water-bearer, another to have his own cousin say it. "Why not? Who dares think it? Am I not worthy of such a love?"

"Tawar nin Beria, Legolas, I didn't mean it like that!" Faron rose, too, disturbed by his cousin's extreme response."You barely know him; how could you love him after one night together? Think for a moment, muindor; this is Lord Elrond we are talking about. You cannot love Toradar's much maligned Peredhel fuiad!"

"Adar has misjudged him," Legolas mumbled cheeks going pale as he thought about that unpleasant pejorative that fell so frequently from his father's lips whenever the topic of the Last Alliance came up. Celon'lir said it, too, as did many of the older warriors. He had not, but he had thought it and laughed along with the others at the disparaging comments and jests. Faron's point was not entirely without merit, either; what did he really know of this ellon save that he was an imaginative and gifted lover? Yet, what he had seen in those eyes was surely more than base lust. _Or was it? Mayhap it is worse even than that._Was this the reason Elrond had refused to give his name? Was it nothing more than a game to him after all? "Ai Aramë," he groaned and sat down again, sorrow shielded behind trembling hands.

Faron could see the light dawning and hated the hurt Legolas must be feeling right now, but reasoned it was better to be realistic. He rubbed the hunched shoulders gently; how terrible to experience one's first sexual encounter and first heartache all within the span of a few hours. Legolas heaved a heavy sigh and straightened, met his gaze with such a look of betrayal and despair that he caught his breath. "Muindor, are you going to be all right?"

"Of course," Legolas frowned and again shoved the consoling hand off him as he reached for the boots Faron had brought. Like everything else, they had been cleaned of the mud and muck of the journey and were soft and dry. The guards took turns caring for his habit and personal things, trusting no others to ensure he was properly clothed and accoutred for patrol. It was a responsibility in which they took great pride and arguments broke out if anyone tried to take the duty for more than his allotted days. This was the eighth day of Filigod's turn and he could see extra care had been taken; his eyes stung and he determined to show the ancient general more respect than he had done of late.

_I should have listened to him._

He wriggled his bare feet into the boots, succoured by the familiar, and berated himself for being such a selfish leader. His troops deserved better than this mess in which he had entangled them. He stood, resolved to extract them from the fiasco unscathed and preserve them from any harmful repercussions. "I am no child, Faron, and relinquishing virginity is generally cause for celebration instead of alarm. Come, we need to stop this rumour about rape at once. I will not have any blood spilled because of my reckless behaviour."

He strode out into the infirmary and came to an immediate stop, finding every eye upon him. Those eyes were leering and scornful and either raked him up and down with salacious curiosity or averted quickly to deny acknowledging him beyond that first look. He did not like it one bit and felt his cheeks burning, but he knew how to carry himself with dignity, recalling that he was Ernil Legolas Thranduilion and represented all of Greenwood the Great, the longest continuously occupied sovereign realm of elves anywhere on Arda, be they Noldorin, Sindarin, Galadhrim, Gondolindhrim, Avarin, or Sylvan, Doriath and all Beleriand included. Still, it was not an easy stroll to make and the days ahead stretched into an eternity of similar marches under the scrutiny of condemning eyes. "Faron, I want my brother here," he whispered, and walked on, permitting his cousin to take the lead as he had no idea how to get from the House of Healing to the barracks.

They were met on the way by Filigod and Lord Erestor, who passed his own evaluating inspection over the Mirkwood Prince, one brow quirking up a little and an appreciative half-smile rearranging his patrician features. None of the Wood Elves liked that smug, suggestive sneer and Faron issued a low, menacing growl, hand unconsciously gripping the hilt of the dagger at his waist, but Legolas addressed it by ignoring it coolly. He inclined his head in a formal and regal nod of acknowledgement. "Lord Erestor, I offer my apologies for the subterfuge perpetrated upon your country. It was solely my decision and my order and no reflection of Hiren Adar's views or intentions, not of my loyal guards and kin. No harm was meant; I simply desired to learn about this fair realm unhampered by the restrictions implicit upon those of my station and those of my race." _There, let him think about who he is dealing with here._Legolas' chin lifted and so did both of the seneschal's brows.

Erestor blinked and his oily smirk vanished as he gazed into a pair of flashing blue eyes very much like Thranduil's, though the face owning them was far the fairer. He had not expected this warrior prince to shoulder any of the responsibility for the blunders of the night, nor to demonstrate such erudite and dignified diplomatic acumen. He should answer him, but discovered he was having a bit of trouble disengaging from those eyes. There was so much in them he had not considered: embarrassment, anger, sadness, strength, and indomitable pride. This was not an amusing situation at all, really, and Erestor suddenly felt great sympathy for the young prince. Few people had to endure exposure of the moment their virginity was lost. A private and crucial milestone of life had become a public joke and a political disaster, and Erestor found his anger toward Elrond rekindled. He bowed low, hand over his heart. "Ernil Legolas, I regret that you felt the need to undertake such a subterfuge at all. May I add, I am pleased to see you well."

"Of course I am well," Legolas bristled, tired of hearing this remark. One would think he'd been cut to the quick. Hands on hips, he glared at each in turn. "Time to crush this ugly lie." He turned and set off at a swift pace, following the ominous sounds of his warrior's complaining voices plotting revenge in the sylvan tongue, hearing real outrage and fury in them.

His heart softened; they were good folk and were restraining themselves admirably, for it was plain enough they were ready to do murder to avenge their prince's honour. He entered the long, low building to a loud chorus of welcoming voices and was immediately engulfed in a throng of touching hands, scanned by anxious eyes as one and all had to be satisfied that he was really here, well and whole. _Or nearly so._He smiled and permitted the pats on the back, the squeezes to his biceps, the hug from Mallavorn, comforted by this outpouring of affectionate relief.

"Mellyn, mellyn," he said finally and they fell silent at once. "Your kind consideration and devotion moves my heart. I am deeply gratified to know you all care so much." He saw lots of warm, sad smiles that made his stomach lurch. What were they so sad about? "Please rest assured no harm has been done to me in any manner. This notion of rape is ridiculous and must nevermore be mentioned. Lord Elrond is a noble and honourable ellon who would never take unfair advantage of anyone." Eyes bulged and brows arched skyward on almost every face at this, but none dared contradict him. "He did not know who I am and we all know why, don't we? So you see, good Filigod was correct; I have brought this unseemly notice of my personal life upon myself. My foolish notions about avoiding the duties imposed by rank and position have come to ill as he predicted." The warriors watched him intently, many a rueful smile admitting they had thought just this very thing, and still they were unaccountably wistful and dew-eyed. Legolas swallowed down a sudden surge of emotion and cleared his throat.

"I know each of you were prepared to defend me against what you perceived to be a great wrong. I thank you for such dedication and fealty, and ask your forgiveness. I would not place you in such a dreadful position purposefully, caught between duty to me and courtesy to our hosts. I am proud that you awaited the evaluation of our Captain before declaring war on Imladris." A few laughs and nods answered this and he made himself smile at them, though now his heart felt heavy. "Let us put it all behind us, for as you see there is nothing amiss. I am not a child despite what Celon'lir may say and the decision regarding where, when, and with whom I would share this irreversible experience was mine to make, the consequences mine to shoulder." And even as the words left his mouth he understood the sorrow in their eyes and knew his showed the same. He faked a mischievous grin. "I dare say I spent the night far more enjoyably than any of you." Lots of quiet laughter and nodding heads for that; he had them convinced. "Now then, let us show our hosts a co-operative and willing spirit, mellyn, and make the best of our time here. Oh, and Filigod is sending for Celon'lir and Urrusc this very morning."

"Aye, and rightly so," said Mallavorn. "They should share the shame, Tuiw."

Legolas drew himself up to his tallest and fixed a cold, murderous eye upon the hapless warrior. "What shame would that be, Mallavorn?" he demanded.

"Oh," whimpered Mallavorn, shrinking from the angry glares everyone turned upon him. "None, none, Ernilen."

"None indeed," intoned Erestor, coming to stand beside the young woodland royal. He was quite impressed with the maturity with which Thranduilion handled the volatile situation. Legolas had shouldered all the blame for the misunderstanding, concealing Elrond's duplicity in failing to reveal his identity. He might as easily have cried foul and trumpeted the lie of omission before his people to save face, inciting them to disruptive outrage, lodging a formal claim of ill-use, at the very least, before the White Council. It was an entirely unexpected and noble action and he wondered if Elrond realised what a prise he'd won.

"Imladris is honoured by the presence of so esteemed a visitor to our lands. Let this day mark the beginning of a new accord between our peoples." He placed a careful, cautious but firm hand on the prince's shoulder and offered a genuine smile of admiration and friendship. After a few second's hesitation during which the seneschal's soul was thoroughly swept, which left him severely stunned and shaken, Legolas clapped a hand on his shoulder, too, and gave a serious but grateful smile back.

"So be it," the prince announced.

"Do you mean we are staying?" Faron blurted out in surprise. This catastrophe was the gravest and most personally embarrassing one his cousin had ever caused and was more than enough to warrant a speedy retreat back home.

"Of course we are staying," barked Legolas, stepping away from Erestor as he passed a challenging eye over the lot of them. "It would be a shame if we departed without fulfilling Hiren Adar's directive, would it not?"

Alarmed and confused glances were exchanged among the Wood Elves. This disaster was clearly more serious than a lost hunting hound and suddenly the idea that Legolas had been wronged returned. Why else would he still wish to wreak havoc on Imladris? Erestor noted the uneasy mood and became nervous in kind. He touched Legolas' arm.

"I concur with that sentiment. We are pleased with whatever reason caused Aran Thranduil to reach out to the western realms. It is high time we learned about each other and discarded these tired old stereotypes once and for all," he said, again trying to divine the intent behind those inscrutable azure irises and failing. Nonetheless, centuries of diplomatic experience warned that those intentions were not entirely benign. This was Thranduil's son, after all. Erestor unconsciously took a tiny little self-protective step back.

"Agreed," announced Filigod loudly, hands raised up as though in praise. "Let the past be laid to rest; a new era of alliance is upon us."

"Let us pray it is so," murmured Legolas, eyeing his captain askance and receiving an encouraging nod in return; the message was aloft; Celon'lir would come. Legolas smiled thinly at the august counsellor so many centuries his elder and took the trouble to remind him they were equals, and he had been slighted. "Now, Lord Erestor, if you would kindly direct me to the refectory, I have not eaten since yesterday at dawn and am mightily hungry."

As expected, his soldiers would not permit anyone else to see to his needs and he was plucked from Erestor's side. They herded him out the door and across the yard to the mess hall, spontaneously renewing their oaths of allegiance, their love and loyalty firmer than ever, promising to abide by every directive he made, and gleefully relating the tally of blows given and received during the brawl, subtly hinting that his conquest of the Lord of the Vale was the most significant. He did not feel inclined to argue with them or elaborate on his plans and ate without speaking, listening to them all, flanked by Faron and Filigod.

Glorfindel suspended all duty for the guests, having heard everything and then clarified the facts with Erestor. He was as surprised, grateful, and admiring of the young prince's demeanour as Erestor, and equally suspicious of what inspired it. They both realised the need for a day or two for both sides to accept the uncomfortable situation. It was immediately apparent that all bets were now off and any plan to make the visit unbearable enough to chase the Wood Elves out must be abandoned.

First and foremost, the Noldorin soldiers needed schooling in restraining their tongues, for this appalling conjunction of ill-suited lovers might not have happened had they not baited their Mirkwood counterparts and incited a riot. Between themselves, Glorfindel and Erestor agreed it would be best if the Wood Elves left, but they could not suggest it under the circumstances. Such an unforgivable offence might just turn their northern kinfolk into outright enemies instead of potential allies. Suddenly, they were forced to handle the primitive, barbaric Wood Elves with the delicacy and courtesy appropriate for any of the High Elves.

As for Legolas, he was tired, weary inside his soul, the sensation not unlike the way he felt when he thought of his mother, dead so long ago that he could not recall her face anymore. He was no longer floating on a cloud of euphoric joy and the sudden fall from those heights was a numbing shock that left him empty and homesick for Greenwood and his father. He shook loose from guards and kin alike and went wandering amid the gardens, desiring solitude as his mind churned with many questions, heart trembling with the possible answers his reason provided. Not all the answers were ugly and foreboding, but he found it impossible to recapture the sense of belonging and happiness the night's intimate encounter had instilled. In its place was an uneasy dread and the first pangs of an embryonic sorrow he did not want to acknowledge.

Lord Elrond had chosen not to reveal himself and that was not so upsetting, for he had done the same and imagined their reasons were similar. It was so difficult to slough off the trappings of state and just be a natural elf, to be evaluated and accepted on the merits of one's real personality and disposition. What had Legolas' heart in a quandary was the persistence of that little farce. He had felt immediately after the act that it was wrong to go on pretending to be anyone but himself with this ellon who had claimed him, body and soul. Elrond had not felt that same compunction.

Why? Had he perhaps known all along who his partner was? Had he done the deed on purpose to debase him and create the shameful public fiasco in which they were now embroiled? Yet that made no sense, for the revered Lord's reputation would surely suffer when Legolas' identity came to light. Or was the opinion of the Wood Elves so low among these Noldorin folk that it was all a huge joke to them? Perhaps they would praise their Lord as a clever conquerer to have so neatly fooled and despoiled the virgin prince, taking what could never be given to anyone ever again.

Legolas inhaled sharply, almost gasping, feeling that he could not get any air into his lungs, sight faltering as he stumbled to a bench and sat heavily, grasping the edge of the seat for support. It could not be that; it could not. What he had seen in those grey eyes could not be a lie. He repeated this to himself until his heart regained a normal rhythm and his head stopped spinning, then wiped his brow, finding a film of sweat there. Thirsty, he hastened to a cheerful brook and cast himself down to drink. The water refreshed him and he sat calmly, considered his situation anew. Like his good warriors, he would draw no conclusions and make no decisions until his meeting with Elrond on the morrow. There was no point in imagining the worst until there was evidence to support so horrible a reality. He should trust his instincts. Exhausted, unwilling to think about it anymore, he stretched out on the bank and dropped into an uneasy and restless reverie in which his mother's faceless figure berated his irresponsible behaviour.

The gruelling surgery done, the child at last awake and able to speak, Elrond indulged in a brisk stroll through the grounds to cleanse his spirit, clear his head, and stretch his muscles. On a whim, he elected to take the path to the bubbling stream, eager for the quiet privacy the location's distance from the house ensured. He had much to consider and could not suppress the remorse assailing him as his conscience derided his callous remarks to Erestor this morn. He should not have spoken so of Legolas, and not just because he was Thranduil's son. The young warrior had given him something precious and he had sullied it, perhaps ruining the memory of his first time forever. He did not know what to do to rectify the harm done; indeed, he feared to learn how severe the damage might be and simultaneously felt an urgent need to go to Legolas and to avoid him. In this addled frame of mind, Elrond came upon his young lover sprawled beside the brook.

TBC

© 03/03/2012 Ellen Robey

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Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.

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Elvish names and such:

Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filigod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)  
muindoren (my brother - often used between close kindred like cousins)  
Gondaran (Stone-lord - an Imladrian page)  
Peredhel fuiad' (Half-elven Scum)


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Faron Takes Charge

"I don't like it," Faron grumbled, glaring at Filigod. "I tell you, something is wrong and his heart has been wounded."

"I don't doubt it," rejoined Filigod, "but he'll live and the less attention focused on it now, the quicker his hurt will mend."

"Nay," Faron shook his head solemnly. "You know how he is. Legolas will pretend everything is fine, ignoring the pain, staunching the bleeding until he collapses on the doorstep of Námo's Halls." Several murmured affirmations followed from the rest of the warriors listening in grave concern.

They were gathered far from the barracks and the impressive Last Homely House, perched amid the branches of a small wood they'd passed on the way in the day before, an encroachment of wild trees inside the manicured boundaries of the stately home. The stone wall over which they'd extended rather decrepit and broken, evidence that few of the High Elves ventured to this remote corner of the estate. Mallavorn drew breath and opened his mouth to speak, but the warrior next to him kicked him on the shin and scowled fiercely. They'd heard enough of the frivolous ellon's inappropriate remarks for the time being.

"That is true when he thinks the healers will confine him to the infirmary and he'll miss the next patrol," argued Filigod. "This is a different sort of injury altogether. Put yourself in his place; would you want to be reminded of something like this everyday?"

"No, but neither would I want my friends and kinsmen to behave as though it were trifling. Legolas will be glad to know we refuse to sit by and accept Elrond's atrocious behaviour," Faron explained. "There is something that perhaps you've missed, Filigod. Legolas did not know it was Elrond he was with."

"What? That is not what he said," Filigod gave the demi-prince a morose look. "Are you guessing or do you know it for a fact?"

"It is a fact. Almost the first words out of his mouth when he saw me, Filigod, were 'I didn't know'. I tell you, he had only in that very moment realised the magnitude of his indiscretion and he was completely unnerved by it. "

"Ai Valar!" wailed Mallavorn. "I wondered how he could choose such an unsavoury character for his first time."

"You be silent, alhand!" warned his tree-mate, glaring, and kicked him again.

"So then Lord Elrond was pretending to be someone else, too?" another warrior asked, just to be clear, for this was the most bizarre comedy of errors any of them had ever encountered.

"What other explanation can there be?" Faron demanded. He met every set of eyes and found within them renewed outrage.

It was one thing for Tuiw to play a harmless prank of altered identity to escape tedious meetings and boring banquets, another for the Lord of Imladris to work a similar subterfuge upon their prince and thereby gain from him so rare a gift, a gift that ought to be conferred only under full knowledge of whom the beneficiary is. To take another's virginity under false pretences was an act of villainy unsurpassed save by the rape they had first imagined. On another level, here was a coup Greenwood would find difficult to tolerate yet even harder to avenge. They could not really declare war on another elven realm; sylvans had no stomach for kin-slaying. Nevertheless, Thranduil's wrath was likely to make the Wraiths seem like friendly neighbours, and one and all realised fully where that fury would be directed: upon the loyal guard assigned to protect the virgin prince from harm. Every head dropped low, for they knew how utterly they had failed Legolas and their King.

"All right," Filigod's gaze passed from warrior to warrior and each nodded resolutely in turn; they were united in their misery and shame and would stop at nothing to undo the harm done to Legolas. Since that was impossible, Elrond must pay. "We are agreed. What do you propose, Faron?"

"Wait, shouldn't Tuiw have a say in this?" suggested Mallavorn. He blocked the anticipated kick with his hand and twisted the ellon's ankle sharply. His comrade boxed him on the cheek instead and Filigod went to separate Mallavorn from the others for a time.

"You are not to call him that again," intoned Faron, passing his eye over the guards once more. "None of us must ever call him that again. He is Ernilen, our Lord on this mission. Mayhap if we were wont to treat him with the respect that is his due, as an adult, he would not have been so eager to cast off innocence in a bid to prove his maturity." More lowered countenances and a groan or two answered his sharp rebuke and he softened. "But nay, I know he is headstrong and wilful like his Adar. Once Legolas has made up his mind, little can deter him. Save for the unpleasant reality, I might believe he seduced that ancient, disreputable ellon."

"Indeed, he must have found Elrond attractive or he would have simply crushed his balls and thrown him out of the room at the first hint of amorous liberties," said Mallavorn and this time his words were met with less hostility. Despite his elegant appearance, Legolas was a warrior few could best and possessed a temper few could survive.

"Fine, he is capable of deciding what he wants, when he wants it, and with whom he wants it. The fact remains, he would not have chosen Elrond of Imladris for his first. Had he known who it was, he would have curbed any desire he may have felt during their encounter, which came about under circumstances I still do not fully understand," Faron lectured. Support was immediate and enthusiastic.

"Agreed."

"What are we going to do about it?"

"Legolas must be avenged."

"Elrond must pay."

"Aye, but how far do we take it?"

"There must be no bloodshed," Faron warned, "for Legolas has chosen effacement rather than have any of us come under the retribution of the White Council."

"Then he does not want us to avenge him," whined Mallavorn. "Make up your mind, Faron."

"Fool! Legolas wants retribution but he is hampered by diplomacy. Until Celon'lir arrives, he is Greenwood and has to conduct himself with dignity and restraint. By his example of noble, aloof insouciance, he means to show the Noldor for the ragnâ, atata-nibê njadrî they are."

Mumbled agreement sounded through the wood as the warriors smiled grimly over this demonstration of the superiority of sylvan deportment and civility. Under the foment of their disgust over Elrond's ignominious conduct, the Wood Elves forgot that it was abandoning that sense of dignity and restraint that had landed Legolas in this predicament in the first place.

"So, what do you propose, Faron?" Filigod asked again. He watched an evil grin spread over the demi-prince's face and shuddered, wondering if he would survive the chaos about to unfold.

"This is a staid, stale realm, her people complacent in their assumption of peace and prosperity, mired in visions of Noldorin might and glory long past and completely outdated. They think they are exempt from any of the dangers assailing the rest of the world. I think it is our duty to teach them the error in holding too firmly to such vainglorious presumptions of superiority and safety. We should unleash the Trials upon them."

There was general agreement and a great deal of sinister laughter and smug rubbing together of hands, but one voice ventured a warning.

"But, Faron, they are immune to the dangers of the world at large. Elrond has that Ring of Power, you know," Mallavorn complained. Three warriors descended upon him and dumped him out of the tree, leaving him as the soldiers followed Faron to a new location, in accord with standard woodland defence strategy, to organise their plans.

Filigod helped the bruised warrior to his feet and they shared their mutual concern. "I only wanted to remind them what we're up against," whined Mallavorn. "That is the first rule of battle: do not underestimate or discount your enemy's strength."

"Agreed, mellon, but you know as well as I there is no stopping them now. They want their vengeance and they shall have it if it kills them," advised Filigod.

"Can't you so something? Perhaps if you went to Lord Elrond and explained what is about to happen he could prevent it."

Filigod turned on his companion in severe disapproval. "You want me to betray my prince and country?" he scolded. "For shame, Mallavorn! We have no choice but to stand beside our comrades no matter the outcome. Our honour demands it."

"Isn't this the same policy that got the sylvans massacred at Dagorlad?" Mallavorn whimpered.

Elrond gasped, seeing Legolas prone on the ground senseless, and ran to him, terrified that his worst fears had come to pass and he had reduced the ellon to grief and fading. He knelt and cautiously touched him, saw at once he was neither dying nor even unconscious and smiled in great relief as the blue eyes sharpened and focused upon him. The expression in them was wary but no fury blazed up. His heart leaped in hope; perhaps there was still time to straighten everything out and reveal his true name. "Legolas. I saw you lying here; I thought - -"

"Elrond," Legolas said quietly, the first time he had spoken that name aloud without its title in front of it and an undertone of scorn and disdain within it.

The mighty Lord inhaled audibly and he sat back on his heels, head lowered and eyes averted. "You know, then."

"Aye." Legolas observed him as he raised himself and crossed his legs beneath him, noting the dismayed and penitent posture, and his heart felt easier. He reached out and settled a tentative hand on the elder's knee. "And I guess you do, too." He smiled as the troubled visage lifted and rueful grey eyes probed his.

"Are you terribly angry? I didn't think very carefully about the ruse; the circumstances were not exactly amenable to deep and cautious considerations," he said and was pleased to see the young archer's smile brighten. He took the hand on his knee into his own and squeezed the long, elegant fingers.

"Nay, they were not," admitted Legolas. He looked to the hand holding his and something about that simple connection made his heart turn over. "How can I be angry when I did the same thing? We had similar reasons, I would wager."

Elrond chuckled. "Yes, assuredly. An elven Lord and a common archer are an unlikely pairing."

"Aye, and a Wood Elf prince would not often be coupled romantically with a common Noldorin healer," Legolas nodded, but his face grew serious. "Yet I revealed my name and would have told all. Why did you persist in the farce?" He waited pensively for the answer, for the next few words would either justify his rash decision to cast off chastity with a total stranger or mark his actions as a profound error.

"As I said," Elrond replied, forehead crinkled in confusion. "My position demands a certain level of dignity and it just would not be acceptable for me to engage in such a liaison with an unknown sylvan warrior. I did not know, you see, that you are Thranduil's son. If I had, I never would have gone through with it."

Legolas withdrew his hand. "I see," he said, unsettled by these words, for there was a bit of a contradiction here. He frowned; unable to deny that he would never have thought to approach this august and ancient Lord, much less share such a pivotal event with him, had he guessed who he was. "What do you think about it now?"

"Now?" Elrond faltered. What did he think about it? He thought it was a horrible mistake in spite of the pleasure they'd shared. Thranduil was sure to accuse him of taking advantage of Legolas no matter if the prince was willing or not. And he didn't have to wonder about the possible repercussions for Erestor had berated him with them all through breakfast. Even so, being close to Legolas now made those consequences seem superficial. Why could they not be lovers? Weren't they both of age and willing? Would it not be a more terrible mistake to deny themselves this experience all for the sake of prejudices no longer relevant, if they ever were at all? And yet, wasn't it unseemly for him, the de facto High King of the Noldor, to consort with the the minor prince of a backward people? "I don't know what to think," he admitted honestly.

"What do you mean?" Legolas demanded, cheeks stained with colour. "A simple sylvan archer you would never stoop to even address much less take as a lover. Are you saying a Prince of Greenwood is beneath you, too?"

Elrond's brows rose high, thinking the Prince of Greenwood had indeed been beneath him all night, but he wisely kept that quip to himself. "Legolas, I don't believe for a minute that you ever imagined I would be your first lover anymore than I did. Let us be honest. Our people have long been at odds with one another. Our private opinions of one another are probably not very flattering."

"Yes, I am well aware of that," Legolas fumed, beginning to burn with shame. Elrond had not replied to his question and that reticence formed an answer in itself. He had given himself to an arrogant elitist. "But you were my first and I have to know what you feel about that now."

"What good does it do to over-analyse it?" Elrond snapped, irritated. What did Legolas expect him to do, declare undying love? "Everyone has a first lover. Would you be asking all these questions about feelings if yours had been a sylvan archer instead of me?"

Legolas' eyes went wide and his face went white. "I would," he said bitterly. "I would want to know if it meant anything to him or if I was just another conquest, soon to be forgotten."

"Legolas," Elrond sighed, shaking his head. "I told you last night I will always treasure the gift you so generously gave, but you and I cannot really remain lovers now."

"Why not?" Legolas demanded, voice harsh. These were not the words he'd hoped to hear for they meant the water-bearer was right; Faron was right. "So, it is true. You are you ashamed to have a Wood Elf for a lover!"

"Ashamed? Of course not." Elrond grimaced; in truth, he would never have considered a Wood Elf for a lover at all but for Barahin's fateful decision to put one literally in his bed. Shame had nothing to do with it; they were simply too widely divergent in station. It would be almost as unthinkable as taking a dwarf to his bed. If Legolas couldn't see how it was he didn't know how to explain it. He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you. I had planned to keep you as long as you remained in Imladris, but under the circumstances I think that would be unwise."

"Keep me?" Legolas' eyes grew round as he digested this notion and began to comprehend. The blood rushed back to his face and he leaped to his feet. "Ai Arâmê! Keep me! As a courtesan, you mean!"

"What?" Elrond squeaked, flushing scarlet as he scrambled up to face the charge. Since it was true he was having difficulty doing so. "Nay, nay, not exactly that, Legolas, but I "

"That is what you thought!" Legolas thundered, going up on his toes so to shout right in Elrond's face. "Ai Valar, I cannot believe I permitted you to be the first! That blow to the head must have knocked my ability to reason clean out of it." He set to pacing in his agitation for he feared if he continued to look upon that astonished and guilty countenance any longer he would strike the ancient legend. "Tawar nin Beria! How could I be so blind?"

"Nay, Legolas, do not say that; I am trying to tell you if only you will listen! I would never have imagined keeping you as a catamite if I'd known who you were are! Of course your position precludes anything so crude, which is why I said we can't be lovers, you see. And I didn't reveal who I was am because I thought if you knew you would be scared off and I was so taken with you I couldn't chance that," Elrond was pacing right along with him, as close to wringing his hands as an Elven Lord can get, and truly thought this was a helpful bit of exposition to offer. Until Legolas rounded on him and began cursing in Nandorin, face crimson and eyes blazing as he reached for a dagger that thankfully was not there. That halted the tirade and a pointing finger came within a few centimetres of Elrond's nose.

"You despicable _Peredhel_!" Legolas bellowed. "I thought we shared something special, something beautiful and you! You just wanted a willing vessel to accommodate your lust! How convenient to find me there already in your bed! And what a triumph for you to take not only your pleasure but my innocence, too." The words were so bitter they hurt him to speak them and to hear them. He gave one harsh gasp as his eyes teared up, then clamped his lips tight, emitted a menacing snarl, and took flight like an arrow shot from a bow.

"No, Legolas! It was beautiful! I did not mean what you think!" Elrond called after him, but Legolas was already beyond sight.

_Up a tree, no doubt, and I'll never find him._

He stood, hands on hips, angry and sorrowful at the same time. Really, they couldn't be lovers. Legolas had to understand the impossibility of such a course. His father would never approve and life would become unbearable for them both. Thranduil might bring charges against him and force a public hearing before the White Council. The image of Galadriel and Celeborn's mortified disgust made him groan aloud.

_To say nothing of what my children would say._

Arwen would stop speaking to him altogether, for she had moved away from the valley the last time he took a lover, damning him for supplanting her mother. Even after he ended it and the lady left for the Havens she refused to come home. His sons were mildly less intolerant and only condemned his lack of discretion about the affair. What they would make of a relationship with Legolas, Mirkwood's youngest prince, younger than Arwen, young enough to be Arwen's grandchild, he hastily refused to let his mind imagine. He returned to the House of Healing to check on his patient, determined to put the prince out of his mind at least until the morrow.

The girl's mother was glad to see him and thanked him profusely, made him sit and fussed over him, calling for the assistant hovering near to order food and drink for the Lord. He nibbled a bite or two to appease her. Laer slept deeply, safely bundled in healing spells and clean white bandages. She was rebounding with amazing speed for a human and Elrond was nothing less than delighted. Mere hours after the surgery and the fever was gone. At least his worries over the Wood Elf had not affected his skill. The thought arrived unbidden and astonished him.

_Legolas! How did I get into such a predicament?_

He stood abruptly and left the child, ambling down the row of beds checking on his patients, asking for updates and barely acknowledging the responses, disturbed that now every facet of his life was coloured by the interlude with the forest prince. Never would he have imagined that a single night of passion could lead to such complications. He had not taken a lover for centuries and had not really felt deprived in his abstinence. He was surrounded by elves of every kind, all beautiful and many of noble blood, but none had stirred him as the fair son of Thranduil and he could not account for it. Why had he succumbed now?

He knew, though, and could not pretend he didn't. He had wanted to be the warrior's first, had wanted bragging rights and the envy of his kinsman and friends. He had wanted a lover distinctly beneath him in class and station who would not even think to demand anything more of him than the pleasure they shared, who would count it an honour to be his kept pet, would worship him. That was not a very flattering picture of himself and Elrond cringed.

One of his healers gave him a questioning look and he scowled fiercely to forestall the offer to be of aid, turned aside, walked quickly out to the veranda. There he leaned against the railing with a heavy sigh, watched the stars come out and Ithil set. The patients and their kin fell into slumber and the ward grew quiet, the understated song of healing filling the place, seeping out and enveloping him. He sighed a second time, suddenly overwhelmed with an anxious depression of spirit and mind. Clouds began gathering as the night deepened and the distant rumble of thunder preceded a burst of bright light. An hour later, a pale and misty rain began to fall.

_Where is he now? I should have gone after him._

Elrond wondered if Legolas had returned to the barracks, gathered his troops, and departed. A burst of dread made his breath falter, but he recovered instantly. He would have heard if the Wood Elves were gone from the valley. What were they plotting, then? They must be plotting something for Legolas was furious. No doubt he was holding a war council in his room even now. At once Elrond flushed with shame. In a spiteful mood, he had housed the son of a the woodland King in the sparse efficiency of the officers' quarters. This fact would not be lost upon the young archer and could only deepen his resentment.

_I behaved childishly. It would have been better to treat them as the sons of the Valar rather than sons of a rogue Sindarin tyrant._

Still, he knew the reason the Wood Elves had come here was not exactly a mission of goodwill. That was the crux of it; he'd wanted to get in the first dig by housing the princes like any common soldiers, denying them the courtesy their rank deserved. He turned and stared through the open archway toward the humble infirmary office and another pang assailed him. That was no fit place to be bedded for the first time. His initiation into sexual intimacy, beyond awkward, groping explorations with his twin, had been a wondrous experience, the Lady in question a High-born Noldor widowed in the first kin-slaying, voluptuously beautiful and genuinely good.

She had selected Elrond and Elros when they was still just striplings fostered in the house of Maedhros and made no secret that she had gained permission from their austere mentor to be their teacher in this vital subject. They went to her house for tea once a week and were entertained like princes, but chastely. She treated them to delightfully suggestive repartee that made them aroused, but she never touched them, not even in a friendly way. She lavished them with gifts of clothing and jewels and made it clear she would take no other lovers until the day they came of age. He and his brother had felt a delicious combination of pride and terror. The anticipation was unbearable in the best of ways. When the day came, he and Elros left the celebration in her carriage and stayed in her boudoir for three days. She taught them everything, including what to do with one another, and when they left her they were confident of their newly acquired skills and yet not boastful.

Elrond found he was not only smiling but mildly aroused as he recalled that night. Then his happy reminiscence faded; what would Legolas remember about his first coupling? He exhaled another ponderous sough; if only he had known who the naked youth was, everything would have been different. He wouldn't have so much as spoken to him much less touched him, and suddenly he realised what a crime that would have been. In spite of the complications looming, Elrond could not regret the night and knew he would relive it with sweet nostalgia for the rest of his days. He had not known such a fulfilling and thrilling experience since the affair with Gil-galad. Even his union with Celebrian had lacked the fiery passion he'd felt thrusting into Legolas' lithe and supple body, feeling the tremors racing through him, watching as orgasm overtook him and the archer wept for joy, never even realising it. Elrond groaned; now completely erect and impossibly hard, he shifted in discomfort.

_Elbereth! I want him!_

TBC

© 03/03/2012 Ellen Robey

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Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.

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Elvish names and such:

Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filigod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)  
muindoren (my brother - often used between close kindred like cousins)  
Gondaran (Stone-lord - an Imladrian page)  
Peredhel fuiad (Half-elven Scum)  
ragnâ, atata-nibê njadrî (crooked, two-faced rats)

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	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 - Coup d'état

The sky dropped low, weighted down by the dismal drear of massive, dimpled clouds of silver-grey, an incomprehensible luminosity to the shadowy substance of formless air that lent no aid to eyes, pouring a steady cascade of pattering rain that damped and deadened the sound of feet walking, lungs breathing, and voices whispering. An opaque cloak of obscurity enveloped the serene vale of Singing Falls and smothered that omnipresent glow of peaceful tranquility for which it was famed, inciting an unexpected prickling of incoherent and indefinable dread. All over the secluded haven laughter ceased, songs choked off mid-verse, dancers stumbled and clutched to one another in the gathering gloom.

Lamps were lit, windows and doors were shut tight, curtains were drawn. Behind them the Noldorin folk crouched in huddled apprehension, sensing a change in the wind, a shift in the pressure of the air about their ears, a sudden yet subtle diminishing of the placid atmosphere taken so much for granted under the protection of the Lord Elrond and his powerful Ring. Instincts not required since the founding of the realm, rusty from lack of use, prodded their hearts and minds with adrenalin and caused eyes to search for weapons long since set aside. What creature, what enemy had breached the defences of Glorfindel's bold warriors to stalk the last of the High Elves in their hallowed refuge? A night of strife was upon them, a night of ancient fears and terrors too dreadful to name, a night such as had never fallen upon Imladris.

It was a perfect fuin-en-ethir, a night for those that perceive in the dark, who hunt by scent and sound, a night well suited to sneakers and spies and prowling Wood Elves.

The sylvans flowed as water, drifted as misty fog, passed as puffs of wind amid the clouds, stealing through the backyards and terraced landscapes of ostentatious houses in silent pursuit of their objective. They slipped unseen through water-logged lawns and dripping gardens, navigating the dense shadows of shrubs and trees and ornamental statuary, invisible but not undetected, hidden but not indiscernible, relevant and menacing, perceptible in the hairs on the arms and napes of innumerable necks lifting stiffly before the advance of a storm felt long before the first bolt breaks, and that was to their purpose. The Trials demanded honourable behaviour and in all fairness the Imladrian citizens could not hope to detect an attack by Wood Elves unless the latter permitted it. Faron had decreed that to capitalise upon this weakness would be ignoble and so one and all allowed the strong feelings bound up in each and every heart to stream forth and herald their stealthy approach.

To their great surprise, they proceeded unchallenged.

As they moved on, Noldorin chests heaved in relief and aristocratic skin pimpled, shedding fear in shuddery jerks as the peril passed by their homes and let them be. None knew what provoked this precipitous and fleeting sense of doom, never guessed the predators had achieved their goal and surrounded the Last Homely House. Male elves came out into the night and conferred with their neighbours, reassured one another, convinced colleagues and comrades it was nothing. They did not go to their Lord in his palatial abode to report the strange sensation, but returned to their own houses and comforted frightened mates and children. The mood throughout the valley remained subdued while at Elrond's estate the tide of dread crested and lapped at the hedges and gardens bounding the courtyard. There, the Wood Elves readied their bows and awaited the signal from Faron, for their prince was not among them.

Faron watched the majestic mansion intently, noting the dull glimmer emitted by the fading embers of the hearth in the Hall of Fire, the blank, black gaps where windows stared from empty and unlighted chambers. Most of the servants had gone for the day; he had seen them pass out the rear through the cook-house. Those that remained within were residents of the Lord's household: Erestor and his pages and scribes ensconced in his suite of offices on the first floor; bright light bled from there. The minstrel's quarters in the east wing were not empty but the singer's voice had faltered and his curtains were drawn close; behind them the indefinite shadow of his pacing form passed to and fro. Almost all the upper rooms were dark, only a second story corridor illuminated. The main doors were thrown wide and out of the arched opening a wide swath of yellow radiance streamed, catching on individual drops as they fell so that a fine veil of fluid gold guarded the entry. Twice, the seneschal had come to stand in this space, hands on hips and face frowning, peering into the foreboding atmosphere. He had not remained there many minutes before retreating.

Patiently the sylvans waited, silent and motionless, auras dimmed down, sharp eyes and fair faces camouflaged under hooded cloaks the colour of the rainy night. They could remain thus for days without effort or even mild discomfort, for the conditions here were luxurious compared with those at home. It was a lark they were on yet even so it was a serious endeavour and they were firm in their resolve, convinced duty and honour demanded a successful outcome. That result was assured; never for an instant did they contemplate defeat, for they had not only the advantage of surprise but the benefit of continuous and necessary practice in the arts of aggression. So they crouched amid the pretty flower beds behind twining vines and branching bushes, poised and confident as they awaited their prey, for the Lord of Imladris was not home yet.

But he would come.

Earlier reconnaissance had revealed the patients in the infirmary steadily improving, the danger of relapse over and recovery proceeding apace. The great healer would not need to rest in his tawdry little office behind the plain canvas curtains. No, the renowned lore-master would be returning to his plush apartment to relax in comfort and savour his inglorious conquest of the unsuspecting and guileless Prince of Greenwood. He would find his rest disturbed, however, and spend rather a thorny night attempting to recover both dignity and freedom. The trap was set and the Wood Elves needed only to wait; he would stroll right into it and be caught fast. Then let him squawk and howl in fear and then in misery, for dawn would reveal him to all and his humiliation would be complete. No physical harm would touch him, but the injury to his ego would be much more devastating.

The rain was slackening and the squelching sound of footfalls made every sylvan head turn in unison, brought a grin of predatory delight to every Wood Elf warrior's face; there he was hastening through the rain with his arms cast above his head to ward off the rain. Motionless in their mirth, the warriors readied themselves, but suddenly Faron issued a shrill, high whistle like that of a bat. Everyone tensed; a shadow dogged the elven Lord that was not his own. Consternation passed in silent looks from archer to archer for it could only be another Wood Elf and thus it could only be Legolas stalking the son of Eärendil. What now? Faron sent out three more shrill notes and was answered by his cousin; disappointed but obedient, the sylvans withdrew, melting into the night to seek another target.

Yet we should reverse a pace or two…

From the shelter of the infirmary veranda Elrond scanned the hazy contours of the rain-drenched grounds closely; he thought he'd seen something moving through the bosket that defined the bounds of the maze. Nothing met his scrutiny beyond the incessant precipitation and his ears detected only the sedating sounds of the steady down-pour. He had hoped for an instant it was Legolas coming to find him here, coming to demand an apology and reconciliation, coming to share the night with him. Oh, to see him coming again!

Elrond's cock twitched beneath his robes and he had to exert himself not to reach for it. He had not been this aroused in an Age or more and he positively ached with desperate need. He had never wanted anyone the way he wanted Legolas, a hungry and urgent desire that was at once a torment and an exquisite and delicious expectation of pleasure, temporarily delayed. He would have him again; he must. He would make that apology and mend the rift his thoughtless words had made. The reunion would be glorious, better than their initial coupling.

_But I must find him first and that is not likely to happen tonight._

He sighed; his hand would have to do, but not here, not after last night. He strode from the porch into the drenching rain and hastened through the grounds, eager to gain the privacy of his rooms and cast off his clothing. He would order a hot bath and do it there in the tub. He picked up his pace and reached the house just as the cascade dwindled to a drizzle, bounded up the front steps and through the great doors thrown wide in anticipation of his return. Erestor emerged from his office as he trotted across the foyer and up the winding central stairway, dripping a wet trail as he proceeded.

"Elrond, a word if I may, cousin," the seneschal called to his Lord's retreating back and frowned. His aura glistened as though he were under some dire and mounting strain. "What is amiss?"

"Nothing, muindoren, nothing, but I cannot meet with you now. Later, or at the morning meal would be better," Elrond said without pausing, barely glancing at the seneschal, and continued on. He heard Erestor following and halted outside his chamber door, arms crossed over his chest, brows contracted, irritable in his impatience. "Not now, Erestor. I am soaked through and cold and need some time alone. I have much to consider."

"This you must hear," Erestor caught up and looked him over to satisfy himself that there was nothing really wrong, worried that perhaps he'd run afoul of the Wood Elves. "The Mirkwood contingent has disappeared from the barracks and have not been seen by anyone for hours." He paused, the next words frozen upon his parted lips. The saturated clothing clung to the Lord of Imladris and Erestor's sight honed in on the real reason for all this hasty and abruptly dismissive behaviour. He raised smirking eyes and found his kinsman blushing.

"Satisfied?" spat Elrond, angry and embarrassed for reasons he could not comprehend nor cared to try.

The brusque query took Erestor aback and his smile vanished. "I did not mean to pry," he insisted. "I was worried about you, nothing more. Please excuse me." He bowed formally.

"Oh forget it!" Elrond snapped, waving a hand before him in agitation. "What about the sylvans? Have they left Imladris, then?"

"Unfortunately, no. The sentries have seen no sign of them…"

"That means nothing! These are Wood Elves!" Elrond barked, frustrated and unwilling to tolerate such stupidity.

"…and all their gear is still in the barracks," Erestor finished his report dryly and gazed at Elrond with interest. The little prince must have made a considerable impact on him after all.

"Ah. Fine, good," Elrond nodded, uncrossed his arms then crossed them back, tried to think of something appropriate to say and failed. "Keep me informed," he ordered and turned to enter his suite, pausing and looking back sternly. "But do not disturb me unnecessarily, Erestor." He went in and shut the door.

"When have I ever?" Erestor asked, insulted. He heard the bolt engage and left, baffled by Elrond's bizarre mood. Was he truly enamoured of the woodland prince? Nay, it was surely mere lust and at least he was not attempting another coupling with Thranduil's son. Erestor had been quite severe in his condemnation of his kinsman's lapse in reason to behave so impulsively, but his personal observations of Legolas gave new depth to the elven Lord's callous attitude. Legolas was not only unusually impressive for a Wood elf, he was an outstanding example of the natural grace and dignity with which Eru had imbued the First-born. Erestor could understand the attraction must have touched Elrond on many levels, especially since he had not taken a lover for so lengthy a span of time. Even so, it would be inexcusable to continue the affair under the circumstances, since Elrond had no intentions of taking Legolas as his mate.

_One night may not have been enough, but he'll have to be content with the memory of the encounter._

What a poor substitute masturbation would be. Served him right, Erestor thought, smirking again. He reached the second turning in the spiral stairs when a sudden gust pulled the front doors to with a loud bang and he jumped, filled anew with the unpleasant foreboding that had set in right about the time the rain began, which in and of itself was an unexpected occurrence seeing that word had come back from Elladan that the dragon was killed and the fires extinguished. Glorfindel and his patrols had all returned with no reports of anything else stalking the lands round Imladris. Elrond had let the storm dissipate and there was really no need for him to call up more after that thorough drenching. This made Erestor speculate as to his Lord's state of mind, for it had been exceptionally stormy and vile in the valley right after Celebrian left. Perhaps it was time to set Vilya aside again.

He had already suggested that as soon as it was certain the Mirkwood savages were on the way, but Elrond had scoffed at his concerns. Of course, he had not anticipated any contact with them, yet now he had undertaken the most intimate form of contact possible between two people. Did the Wood Elves know about the Ring? Erestor could not be sure, but suspected it was so. After the insult done to their prince, might the warriors seek revenge by stealing it? Indeed, since nightfall he had been suffering from a lingering sense that the house was surrounded and under siege.

Erestor ran down the stairs and yanked open the door, gazing out into the darkness to see if there was anyone there, but of course there was nothing to see. That meant less than nothing when one was dealing with Wood Elves, he knew. He shut the door and bolted it, sending a page to fetch Glorfindel and a contingent of warriors. He went to the back of the house to await them, fingering the hilt of his sabre as he leaned against the jamb.

Upstairs, Elrond had no inkling any of this activity was occurring. Other, more visceral concerns overwhelmed his famed faculties of foresight and intuition. He gave terse orders for hot water and waited impatiently on his balcony for the servant to see to it and then go. It seemed an eternity before the bath was ready and the cool night air brought chilblains to his flesh, yet his arousal did not abate and he actually imagined for an instant that he saw Legolas striding through the gardens and navigating the maze. That was impossible, of course, for the young prince had never been here before and would have no way of knowing the layout of the estate. He shivered, reflecting on Erestor's news, feeling both a sense of great relief that the archer was not gone and a sinking horror over the possibility that Legolas might leave at any moment, or again might not leave before satisfying his thirst for vengeance.

Really, Elrond had handled the situation badly, forgetting in his shock how vulnerable the ego was at sixty. He should not have been so insistent upon the finality of their single night of passion. And did he really say 'Everyone has a first'? How cold that was! This was all Erestor's fault for ranting on and on about the great insult tendered to the entire royal family of Greenwood and all her citizens. It was true enough that this unfortunate case of mutual subterfuge was likely to incite a rage in Thranduil not seen since his father's death at Dagorlad, but a gentler separation from Legolas might have mitigated that wrath considerably.

It would have been wiser to let the decision be the prince's, for surely he would have come to understand how untenable an extended affair between them must be. The reasons were numerous and obvious: Elrond was much too old for him, he already had a mate in Aman and a family here in Middle-earth, he and Legolas lived in regions separated by leagues of wild and mountainous terrain, their beliefs were entirely different, their tastes and preferences must be completely opposed. That was the short list. Erestor could likely add to it considerably and Glorfindel would have a few words on the topic as well, no doubt.

"All is ready, Hiren," announced the sour tempered water-bearer, the very same who had so gleefully insulted Legolas, not bothering to hide his grimace of distaste from Elrond either as he bowed his way toward the servants' exit.

"Thank you, Nengyll," Elrond smiled, but immediately the friendly expression vanished and his eyes narrowed. "Wait." He eyed the ellon closely, piercing the underling's efforts to shield his heart and mind, and quickly perceived the reason for the disrespectful tone. A dark rush of colour flooded the water-bearer's face and he dropped his guilty eyes. "So. You think yourself fit to pass judgement on my actions?"

"Nay, Hiren, I would not dream to do so," stammered the ellon, tone ingratiating, bowing low. "Forgive me."

"I don't care what your personal opinion about my private life is," Elrond informed coolly, "but if you display it in my presence again you will be dismissed from your post. Clear?"

"Aye, Hiren. It is only that I respect your family so highly that I felt such dismay." The odious lackey hastened away and Elrond locked the back stair's doorway behind him.

_There's yet another reason I cannot court him._

He sighed, realising he had been doing quite a lot of that lately and wondered whether his touch of melancholy had perhaps made him susceptible to the woodland archer's charms. This thought and all others he discarded as he entered the steam-filled bath suite, pausing in the dressing room to peel off the sodden, cloying robes. Grinning, cock in hand, he ran and leaped into the tub, sending a delicious cascade of hot water up around him. He slid down into he deep basin with a long drawn groan of anguished self-indulgence, fist already at work as the oily, scented water lapped around his chin. His eyes fell shut and his mind brought forth the image of Legolas, naked, aroused, trembling in ecstasy, and Elrond moaned in wanton desperation.

"Ai! Maethoren, Ernilen, Maethoren!" his voice rolled and he pushed his bottom up in a forceful thrust. The bath water sloshed and some flooded his open, panting mouth. Spluttering, he sat up abruptly and coughed to clear his lungs. A sudden draft made him shiver and he rose to shut the dressing room door. The motion was never completed, for his eyes locked on the very vision he'd conjured for his fantasy. The Prince of the Woodland Realm stood tense and aroused in the space between the rooms, revealed in all his libidinous glory. "Legolas! How did you…

Elrond did not finish his question until some ten years later long after all this intrigue had become part of Imladris and Greenwood's history, for Legolas pounced, springing from his place and tackling the wet and slippery Noldorin Lord, briefly submerging him before hauling him above water and kissing him with ferocious command. He had the noble ellon effectively pinned and managed to snake a hand between the crush of their bodies and stroke the rigid column of flesh and blood, rubbing his own in the process, and they both moaned and bucked into the contact. Legolas relinquished the sensuous lips and smiled into the stunned countenance beneath him.

"Yield to me, Penvuin," (Dearest) he crooned seductively, letting go the massive cock to trail the tips of his fingers over the tender perineum. Elrond gasped out a garbled grunt and wriggled about, eyes immense and colour high. "Aye, you want it; yield Nestaron nín," he chortled in his exalted victory, eyes half lidded as probing fingers breached the tight anus, for Elrond was practically begging him to do it. Legolas could hardly restrain himself.

"Ai!" Elrond cried as he was invaded and then shouted out a cry of pure delight as the clever fingers found the right spot and rubbed it gently, peering all the while into those incredible blue eyes, the fair face alive in triumphant joy. The ancient lore-master realised he was about to be mastered, taken forcefully and utterly as none had done since Gil-galad, and found this excited him verily beyond his limits to resist. His heart was thundering in his chest and simultaneously swelled with warm felicity, for Legolas was waiting for consent and would go no further until it was granted. Elrond had no wish to wait. He lifted his legs high and clasped them round the Wood Elf's waist, almost wept when the probing hand relocated to wind beneath his neck and support his head, carefully holding him well above the water. The firm and velvet-soft tip of the archer's penis pressed against his opening.

"Maethoren, do not torment me! I yield! Garo nin si! Si!" (Have me now! Now!)

"Elrond, melethron," Legolas groaned, pushing inside with admirable and deliberate self-control, penetrating the searing heat of the clenching channel in slow increments until at last he felt the skin of his sac flush against the mighty Lord's arse. "Melethron nín," he whispered, eyes focused intently on the dilated pupils rimmed in stormy grey. "Elrond," he sighed and kissed him, heart soaring, relishing the fingers that cupped his scull and carded his mane. He withdrew almost completely and rammed the willing body hard; raising a squeal of ecstasy which he swallowed hungrily before their mouths parted.

He needed air and huffed and panted as he drove time and again against the delicious friction enveloping his entire organ, his body locked in a nearly crushing grip of arms and legs, water splashing and sloshing everywhere, one arm grabbing onto the side of the tub for support as he moved, Elrond's cock rubbing his belly with every thrust, all these sensations beyond anything he had dreamed, an experience he hadn't the wherewithal to even imagine before. Eager and frantic, his motion was more to ensure his own pleasure but the loud, mostly incoherent exhortations issuing from the Noldo Lord reassured him he was not neglecting his lover's needs. He wanted them to reach orgasm together but had no idea how to make it happen and unconsciously prayed a simple mantra over and over: "Ah, Elrond, Penvuin, Nestaron nín!"

He needn't have worried about the outcome, for the coupling was as overwhelming for Elrond and for once the Lord of Imladris was completely beyond control, all his normal skill in love-making forgotten as he was swept up in the storm of their union. His every response was spontaneous and natural and beyond his ability to either inhibit or enhance. Legolas was completely in control and he could only submit, his body and soul both captive and captivated. It was happening and he could not stop it nor even feel any wish to delay it. Rational thought had long since given ground to pure sensation and almost immediately he learned Legolas' rhythm and matched it.

Together they drove toward a rapturous climax and if Legolas was a little ahead of him, neither ever realised it. They were lost in the unfolding coils of joy, a nearly suffocating inundation of physical delight that rolled them in the tide of their passions, buoyed in their surrender to one another. They sank in the water and Elrond snorted as his nose inhaled the fluid. Legolas at once withdrew and sat back, pulling his lover upright, too. For a moment they simply gazed upon one another, identically giddy smiles adorning their faces, and then simultaneously each reached for the other, arms encircling and holding fast, lips sealed anew. They disengaged grinning and settled contentedly into the mutual hug, heads resting on one another's shoulders.

"Elbereth," Elrond whispered, squeezing the warm body in his arms tighter. "You are amazing."

"Am I?" Legolas chuckled smugly. "I am not through," he announced and loosened his hold, leaned back against the tub to survey the results of his first conquest ever. The picture that met his eyes was beyond gratifying, for Elrond was flushed and spent and draped in boneless ease against the opposite rim of the basin. "So, now you are mine and I am yours."

"Aye, aye," Elrond breathed out the affirmation in wondrous amazement to hear it and could not feel anything but how right it was to admit it. He marvelled that this untried youth had so unequivocally won him, satisfying him body and soul as none had save for that one, lost so long ago. Gil-galad himself could have done no better and Gil-galad had never submitted to him. Elrond found he was eager for Legolas' promise of more to be fulfilled. His eyes traversed the beautiful ellon on display before him, the prince all peachy and pink, the organ that had so enthralled him now lax and limp, bobbing in the undulating water, a slick smear painted across the smoothly muscled chest. Elrond gave a short laugh and leaned forward, ran his finger through the cooling ejaculate, tasted it, sucked it noisily off.

"Ai! That is disgusting, Elrond," Legolas complained, hastily washing off the spent seed, nose wrinkled in revulsion.

"Nay, it is not," Elrond corrected, "as you will someday come to understand." _Someday soon, I hope._

"Never," Legolas shook his head, eyes bright, and stood in the water. His cock was already coming awake after the brief rest and he held out his hand. Elrond gave his into it and was hauled up, the prince kissing him as they stepped out of the tub.

No sooner had their feet touched the floor than Elrond seized the opportunity to scoop up the unsuspecting warrior and carry him off. He issued a loud whoop of wild abandon that drowned out Legolas' shout of surprised indignation. The elven Lord ran with his burden to the bedroom and tossed his lover atop the mattress, bounding atop him before Legolas could recover, yet even so only just grabbed hold of a slippery leg as the archer wriggled away. Elrond hauled him back, flipped him onto his stomach, and entered him, sheathing himself fully in the initial advance. Legolas cried aloud and bucked under him, but Elrond growled, pushed him down and bit his shoulder, driving forward in a pounding assault that brought the prince to howling orgasm in minutes, Elrond right behind him. They collapsed like that, conjoined and drained. After a time, Legolas rolled in his arms and they lay in one another's embrace, kissing and murmuring endearments, sated and happy.

"Did you really think you could give this up, Penvuil?" Legolas asked quietly, wrapping a long, ebony tress round his finger.

"Impossible," Elrond gave him a wry grin and kissed his nose.

"Indeed." Legolas agreed wholeheartedly and snuggled closer, tucking his face under Elrond's chin, lapped at the hollow where his collarbones met.

"We shall find means to appease your Adar and make this work," Elrond said, hoping for strong confirmation of this notion.

"Ada would never oppose the needs of my heart," Legolas informed, "nor even of my body."

This addendum rang an unexpected warning note and Elrond felt his heart lurch. Surely this was more than just physical lust; Legolas' angry outburst earlier could not have been a ruse. He knew his own feelings were growing deeper by the instant and he almost blurted out those fateful words that would commit his heart forever. Fear restrained his tongue; fear spawned by those four casually stated words. "You will stay?" he ventured instead and held his breath for the answer.

Feeling the tension in him, Legolas moved to look in his lover's eyes and felt such a surge of triumph he nearly burst into song. Oh, he had touched him, all right. "Of course I will stay," he said indulgently, tracing the contours of the noble face with lethal fingers. "I promised your sons to remain until Solstice." He settled a swift kiss on the worried lips and rose to his knees, straddled the supine figure and bent low to kiss him deeply, working his cock as it filled, Elrond's rejuvenating beneath him. He broke away and showed off his potent erection, poked, prodded, and lifted Elrond, turning him over, positioning the narrow hips to suit his stance, and fucked the Lord of Imladris thoroughly and well. The room was redolent with the scent of sweat and seminal fluid when he was done.

They moved into the study where Elrond kept a selection of fine wines and poured them both a cup of miruvor to strengthen them. They made love again before the fireplace, Elrond on top, Legolas curled in upon himself, long legs propped high on the elder's shoulders. After that and a refreshing glass of wine, he was introduced to the string of graduated anal beads, standing with hands braced upon the mantle and legs wide as Elrond shoved them deep inside, then struggled not to collapse as the lore-master knelt before him and sucked his cock, yanking them back out slowly, one by one. He gloried in a dry orgasm and was still quivering when Elrond draped him over a chair and fucked him first with his tongue and then with the hard, hot organ that seemed made specifically to fit him and filled him to perfection.

Dawn found them in the bath again, washing away the musky result of their vigourous exercise. Dressed in his wrinkled and rain-rumpled clothes, hair brushed and braided, Legolas gave his lover a lingering kiss and departed, refusing to discuss the future beyond the immediate day ahead. They would meet at the House of Healing after the morning meal, as planned. Disconsolate, garbed in hunting habit instead of his formal robes, Elrond followed him down the stairs and kissed him again before the front door, which he opened and then stood within, watching as the prince strutted away boldly across the grounds and round the back, heading for the barracks. Elrond sighed and shuffled uneasily to the morning room where Erestor was already waiting, brow arched in censure. The seneschal wasted no time berating his Lord.

"The word about the house is that the Mirkwood prince spent the night in your quarters?" Erestor offered it as a question though the house had echoed with their noisy cries of passion and shouts of ecstatic delight.

"Yes, that is so," Elrond said tersely, taking up his tea and having a soothing sip, eyeing his kinsman over the rim of the cup. He decided he did not like that grim and rather sneering expression on his face. He set the cup down primly and dabbed his lips with a napkin. "You are not my Adar, Erestor, and I am hardly a child for you to make such inquiries. I am almost seven-thousand years old and your elder by at least a century. Who I have in my quarters is my own business and none of yours. And I meant that double entendre. I _had_ him, Erestor, and will do so again as often as I can for as long as I can."

"I see. And what of the woodland King?"

"You do not see at all," scoffed Elrond. "Legolas has already assured me his father will do nothing to hinder his son's desires, granting him the dignity adulthood demands and the concomitant confidence that he possesses the ability to order such affairs without aid. Yes, I said affairs, and again the double meaning was intentional."

"So you are going to keep the Prince of Mirkwood, Thranduil's youngest child, an ellon young enough to be Arwen's grandson, whom you have already divested of innocence, for your personal catamite without benefit of bond or betrothal for the duration of the summer?" Erestor hoped stressing these points might jolt his kinsman's reason into activity. He was not only disappointed by the response; he was struck speechless in shock and dismay.

"No, that is not what I mean to do at all. I intend to make him mine and mine alone. We have to uncover some lawful premise for dissolving this ludicrous excuse for a bond with Celebrian. She deserted me, for Eru's sake. Look into it at once, Erestor," Elrond announced, and would have continued, but a strange sight attracted his attention.

He stood and uttered an incoherent noise of mingled mirth and repugnance, pointing into the gardens. Erestor turned to spy a tall figure striding toward the terrace, anger radiating from it in almost visible waves. An elf, probably, though it was impossible to tell for certain beneath the layers of mud, slimy green algae, assorted rotted leaves, shells, various other types of detritus often found at the bottom of lakes and ponds, and horse manure which coated his naked frame and matted his fabled golden hair. The stench was abominable and both Elrond and Erestor clapped hands over their noses and mouths as the walking offal pit neared. It sported crackling blue eyes ablaze with monumental outrage. It was of substantial bulk and stature to slay a Balrog. It was in fact Glorfindel. Erestor got up and moved down wind; Elrond bravely stayed put and fought not to gag.

"Mellon, what on Arda happened to you?" he asked, but there was really no doubt as to the answer.

TBC

© 03/10/2012 Ellen Robey

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Disclaimer: Main characters and settings originally created by JRR Tolkien. Just for fun, no money earned. OC's and story are erobey's.

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Elvish names and such:

Celon'lîr (River Song - Thranduil's eldest)  
Ûrrusc (Fire Fox - Thranduil's nephew)  
Tuiw. (Sprout - a pet name for Legolas)  
Faron (Hunter - also Thranduil's nephew)  
Mallavorn (Black and Gold - one of the warriors)  
Filigod (Little Bird - Thranduil's councillor)  
Condir O Gladgalen (Mayor of Greenwood - Filigod's Official Title)  
Giliach (Star Crossing - Cel's false identity while in Lorien)  
Tôradar (brother-father: uncle)  
Hîren Adar (My Lord Father)  
Hîr Adar mín (our Lord Father)  
Ernil (Prince)  
Ernil Vain, (Pre-eminent Prince)  
Ernil Daid (Secondary Prince)  
ion-an'weath (son-by-bond - son-in-law)  
aurlinn (day-bird, a wood thrush)  
Minya'mmë (grandmother)  
thêl dithen. (little sister)  
muindor laes, (baby brother)  
nâr (rat)  
muindoren (my brother - often used between close kindred like cousins)  
Gondaran (Stone-lord - an Imladrian page)  
Peredhel fuiad (Half-elven Scum)  
ragnâ, atata-nibê njadrî (crooked, two-faced rats)  
fuin-en-ethir (Spy's Night)  
Nengyll (water-bearer)  
Garo nin si (Have me now!) 


End file.
